


Repeat After Me

by Disturbot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, F/M, Groundhog Day, Kidnapping, M/M, Masturbation, Sally Donovan & Greg Lestrade Friendship, Serial Killer, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Time Loop, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2020-11-09 00:16:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20844407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Disturbot/pseuds/Disturbot
Summary: Greg Lestrade and the repeating Friday from hell, or how he comes to realize he's stuck in a time loop and his attempts to break it.





	1. Insanity

“Are you coming, sir?” Sally asked, poking her head out through the door to his office. “Everyone is going to the pub to celebrate, even the Freak.” 

Greg scowled at her for still calling him a freak when she bloody well knew they would never have caught their murderer without his help. 

“Yeah, I'll be along. Just got some paperwork to sort out,” he said and waved her away impatiently. 

Don't get him wrong. He was happy to close this godawful case, but he still had a mountain full of “details” to clear up, and… Was he making excuses? It could wait the next day, if he had to be honest. Maybe it was the fact they had not been able to save his last victim that tempered his desire to go out and celebrate. Maybe it was knowing that once he got good and drunk, he'd be miserable returning to his shitty little flat, or worse, maybe he'd try calling his ex-wife. He never learned. 

No, going to drink with the team wasn't all that appealing. Might as well get the work done and make sure this bastard never saw the light of day a free man again. 

A phone rang somewhere, waking him up with a start. He picked up the one on his desk, but the ringing continued, on the other side of his office. Stupid. Greg shook his head, feeling terrible. Had he fallen asleep at his desk last night again? His eyes scanned his desk littered with papers, files, pens, empty coffee mugs… Right, they had closed the case last night. He really should have taken the opportunity to go home for some rest, instead of feeling like something the cat dragged in after having played with it all night.

His knees cracked as he pushed himself up. Seeing his reflection in the door, he tried to flatten down his hair into something more presentable. He could use a shave too… Fuck, his day had just started and he was already exhausted. His door swung open, hitting him square in the nose.

“Oh my God! I’m so sorry, chief! I didn’t know you were- Why were you standing behind your door, sir?”

Greg huffed. She had burst into his office without warning yesterday too. At this rate, his nose was going to turn into one big fat potato.

“None of your goddamn business, Donovan. What’s the rush anyway?”

“There’s been another, sir. Called in this morning. He’s taunting us.”

Greg frowned. She wasn’t making any sense.

“Who?”

“The tatoo killer,” she deadpanned. “Are you alright? Did you sleep in your office again? I can get you some coffee.”

“No. What I want to know is how that bastard escaped and why I wasn’t told about it before now.”

“Escaped? From where?”

“Custody!” he bellowed. What was wrong with her today. “Are you still hungover from last night?”

“Why would I be…” she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Nevermind. I’ll get things sorted out while you get your head screwed on right. Sir.”

She turned on her heels and rushed out, giving orders left and right. Orders he had given himself yesterday. He had thought they were done with that psychopath but here they were again, back to square one. He did take Donovan’s advice though and went to the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face. Catching his reflection in the mirror he had to admit he looked like shit, but he was marginally more awake, enough to go sort out what the hell was going with their tattoo killer. 

“We're ready to move, sir,” she shouted at him across the open space, grabbing her own vest before heading for the lift. 

Greg caught up easily, not bothering to go back for his vest since it was so bloody hot already, although he did check he still had his badge, wallet, keys and phone in his pockets first. Gun in his holster. He had a niggling feeling he was forgetting something it shrugged it off and slipped into the lift before the doors shut. 

“Fill me in,” he ordered his sergeant once they were in the car and he was speeding towards the crime scene with the siren on. 

“The usual. Witness found a piece of human skin with a tattoo on it nailed to his door. He recognized the tattoo from one of his neighbours and everybody knows about this maniac so he called us immediately.”

Greg knew he had an M.O. but this was way too familiar. 

“What's the tattoo this time?” 

“Another quite. Even Angels Fall.” 

Greg slammed the brakes and turned to look at Donovan.”

“Are you fucking shitting me?” 

Sally's eyes were wide and she was sitting back against the door, but she regained her composure and sat straighter. 

“No. If I may, sir. You've been acting strange today.”

“Me? In the last half hour, you told me our perp escaped custody and kidnapped another poor bastard with the same exact tattoo as the previous one and I'm supposed not to react? Is this some kind of prank because I didn't go out with you guys last night? Honestly, it's in really bad taste.”

“Alright, definitely a problem here.” She snatched his keys from the contact. “I'm calling the super to have you replaced. I think you need… rest. You've been working too hard on this case.”

“Donovan,” he growled in warning. “It wasn't funny to begin with and it's not funny now.”

“Could you hand over your gun?” she asked more softly as if he was about to go off on a killing spree. 

“No! Of course I bloody well won't.”

Her lips drew in a disapproving line and she stepped out of the car, phone already at her ear. He hit the wheel then let his forehead rest against it. She was really doing this. She was the one acting strange and he was the one being punished for it, taking him off the case he'd been working for weeks. He didn't know how long he stayed like that until there was a knock at his window. 

Gregson. He stepped back, gesturing at him to get out. 

“Greg? Everything alright?” 

“Please don't give me your negotiation 101 crap, I'm not in the mood.”

Gregson shrugged. 

“Fine then. Super wants to see you, come with me. Someone else will take care of your car.” 

He looked around but Sally was gone. 

“Who's working my case then?” 

“Dimmock. No one else wanted to work with your pet detective.”

He tried to walk past him but Gregson stopped him, blocking him against his car. 

“Your gun, mate.” 

“Fucking hell, I'm not psychotic. There's no reason to take my gun.”

“Not saying you are. Just got orders.”

“Or what? You'll arrest me?”

Gregson smiled crookedly as if he'd like exactly that. And he was the one being treated like a lunatic. Christ. He handed over his gun, very reluctantly, feeling like he was naked all the way to the Superintendent's office. He stood to attention, trying his best not to throw him a dirty look. 

“Lestrade,” he bellowed with his usual legion of spittle. “Your sergeant tells me you've blown a fuse this morning. You know, son…” 

Oh God, now he was going to reminisce about something or other of no interest that had happened to him as a young strapping lad’. Greg would bet he had never been anything of the sort. Had probably been an insufferable brown-noser since he could talk. He let him talk it out, nodding here and there, while he planned how to get out of trouble. Problem was he wasn't quite sure why  _ he _ was in trouble.

“It's nothing to be ashamed of,” his superior said with an expectant look. 

“Erm… What isn't?”

“Ah yes, I believe you youngsters call it a ‘burn-out’. Happens to the best, and serial killers, well, they would burn out anyone. It's understandable.”

“I'm not-”

The Super raised an eyebrow. 

“Are you saying I'm wrong? Do you have another explanation for your behaviour?” 

He had thought Donovan might be playing a tasteless prank on him, but the Superintendent would never go along with it. 

“We arrested him last night and everyone's acting like it's no big deal he escaped and has another victim in his hands. I think I'm entitled to be  _ a bit _ angry, sir.” 

His superior frowned at him. 

“I do think you need to take some time off, Lestrade. You can return once our shrink clears you. I'll set up your first meeting. You're free to go.”

Greg bit his lip so he wouldn't yell at him. . He couldn't let his temper get the better of him. If he had just kept his gob shut, he would be at the crime scene right now, not sent home under scrutiny of a shrink. He nodded sharply at his superior instead and left, but he went back to his office first to get his vest, maybe a few cold cases to keep him busy or he really would go insane. Except… the casefile he had finished last night was nowhere to be seen. He dug around his desk and found it, incomplete, all his work from the previous day undone.

Sitting back in his chair, he tried to think of why someone would do that when his eyes fell on his calendar. He had forgotten to tear off the page that morning, but even so, it was a day late. He was certain he had torn it off though, remembered throwing it towards the bin and missing, so...

No.

It was ridiculous.

_ When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. _

No.

Greg checked his phone. Then his computer.

No, no, no.

He ran out of his office. Stopping at every calendar he could get his hands on, even an old wristwatch on constable's Harvey's wrist because that couldn't be messed with. 

“What day is it?” he asked the bewildered agent. 

“Friday, sir. Friday the fourth. Are you alright, sir?” 

“But Friday was yesterday,” he said feebly. 

How could there be two Fridays in a row? Or was it just yesterday repeating? Rebooting? And somehow he had not been reset with the rest of the world. Impossible. So… He had dreamed of  _ a _ Friday? A good one, where they arrested their serial killer, no one on his team was hurt, Sherlock was civil and they'd all gone out to celebrate. Minus him. Yeah a pretty good day. Too good to be true. So it had just been a dream, and he had been stupid enough to believe it was real and made a right utter arse of. Himself with everyone. 

He let go of the constable and fell in the closest chair, laughing at himself. Such an idiot. He was still chuckling when a couple of medics came to check on him. 

“I'm fine,” he said trying to wave them off. “It was just a dream.”

The one on his right hummed as if in agreement but pulled him up to his feet while the other steadied him. 

“Let go of me,” he snapped, annoyed now. 

“Sorry, can't do that. Your coworkers are pretty worried about you. We’ll just take you to someplace quiet, so you can rest.”

“Don't be ridiculous. I'm perfectly fine.”

He snatched his arm back from their grasp, but push turned into shove, then into a brawl. He really needed to keep a lid on his temper, but seriously, everyone was just out to get him today. But before he could talk his way out of it, one of them shot him with a good dose tranquilizers. 

“You fuckin’ bastard…” he managed to mutter, feeling as if he was really drunk now. 

He was being carted off as if he was a nutcase, and people he knew whom he had worked with everyday for years just looked at him being dragged away without a care. That was uncalled for. He hadn't been acting that bad. Had he? His thoughts trailed off and he fell asleep at some point, waking up with a clearer head in a hospital room. Really uncalled for, damnit. He got off the bed and headed straight for the door but it was locked. 

“You gotta be kidding me.”

He banged his fist on the door, demanding to be let out, but he couldn't see anyone around, so he paced his room instead. He knew how these things went. They'd test him for drugs, and find nothing, do a psych eval, and find nothing, a d they'd have to let him go. He just had to be patient. 

He sat back on the bed. At least he knew what was wrong now. He'd just been tired and mixed dream and reality. Probably because he'd been so rudely awakened that morning. The two Fridays weren't even that similar. In the first, he'd woken up from that damn phone ringing but stayed at his desk to think about the case. In the second, he'd sat up after the phone rang and tried to make himself presentable after seeing his reflection in the doors window. Why the difference? In one, the case was solved, or so he thought, and not the other. 

Stupid. 

But… Wait… If it had been a dream, how did he know about the tattoo? Greg let his head fall back in the pillow with a groan. Maybe he was going insane after all. If he truly couldn't unravel reality from dreams then he had a serious problem. Could it only be lack of sleep, stress, coffee overdose? 

He almost wished a doctor would diagnose him so he would know for sure, but he was afraid of what he would say too. They'd had a colleague who had gone a bit cuckoo once and he'd had to leave the force. Last he heard of him, he was working half-time at Tesco's and  _ liked _ it there. Greg couldn't imagine being anything other than a copper. He'd always been one, had always wanted to be one. He 

When there was a knock on the door, Greg sat up, and debated briefly whether to lie to the doctor so he'd be sure to get out as soon as possible. But these doctors knew when they were being lied to, right? On the other hand, if he was brutally honest, he was sure to be locked up. He wouldn't let himself out in their place. 

In the end, he chose honesty. He wasn't a very good liar anyway and he was sure it wouldn't be helping his case if he tried. The doctor facing him was cold and didn't say much, took lots of notes and hummed here and there, telling him to continue when he wondered if he was even listening of writing his grocery shopping list. 

When Greg had finished telling him his story, he was just as nonplussed. 

“Well?” Greg snapped, annoyed by his lack of reaction. 

“Well what, Mr Lestrade?” 

“What's wrong with me?” 

“You want me to pull a diagnosis out of a hat. It takes more than you just emptying your bag. We have barely scratched the surface. 

“Shrinks,” he muttered under his breath then louder: “Are you going to ask me to talk about my father next?” 

He had meant it as an insult, but the doctor finally perked up at his question. 

“Father? That's unusual for a man. But as a matter of fact, yes. Are there any instances of mental illness in your family?”

“What? No! Why?” 

“Personality disorders? Schizophrenia maybe? No? How about depression? Insomnia?” 

“No. We're all fucking normal. What are you writing?” 

Greg tried to snatch his bloody clipboard away, but he had his claws sunk into it, refusing to let go and locking them into the most ridiculous match of tug of war, which is when somebody chose to walk on on them of course. 

“John?” Greg asked in surprise, letting go of the clipboard so suddenly the doctor toppled back into his chair. 

John froze at the scene, then cleared his throat to address his doctor, ignoring him completely. 

“Doctor Watson,” he said flashing a badge at him. I have been sent to take care of this patient.”

“Bloody bureaucrats,” the doctor muttered. “Well, it's no skin off my back.”

He stood and smoothed down his white coat, throwing him a dark look. He was almost out of the door when John asked for his notes. The doctor tore them off the clipboard and thrust them at John who turned his back on his counterpart and winked at him. Greg did his best not to look too smug and waited for the door to close to speak again. 

“He's an arse.” 

“Yes, I gathered that.”

“Not that I'm not glad to see you, but what are you doing here? And what was that badge you showed him? ”

John looked at the badge with a bemused smile, then shrugged. 

“I have no idea. Sherlock gave it to me and told me to break you out. It's probably Mycroft's.”

“Of course it is. What was the wanker writing down?” 

John smoothed over the sheets of paper, eyebrows crawling steadily higher on his forehead. 

“Nothing good, I'm afraid,” he said and stashed them in his pocket. “But I promised to break you out. Somewhere you want to go?”

“I'm starving,” he admitted. 

“Angelo’s then. We can talk there.” 

It was unusual for him to sit in the back of a cab as they made their way through the busy London Streets. Stranger yet to be sitting in the cozy booth of a restaurant with John. They got along fine but they had never socialised outside of work, and even these circumstances were a bit peculiar. 

One they had food set in front of them, John prompted him to speak. He supposed he owed him that much from getting him out of the hospital, and maybe he could help instead of looking at him as if he was a cockroach he'd rather step on. 

“Didn't you read it in the doctor's notes?“

“I'd rather hear it from the horse's mouth.”

Greg took a couple of bites as he thought more carefully of how to explain himself.

“I'm still a bit confused,” he admitted. “I woke up this morning thinking it was Saturday. I think I dreamed a whole Friday, from morning to night. We arrested the tattoo killer, but his victim died and you guys went out to celebrate, even you and Sherlock, with the rest of the team.”

John's expression told him how unlikely that was. 

“And not you?” he asked. 

“No. I- Well, I guess I didn't feel like it. I fell asleep at my desk, then woke up at my desk and I thought it was the next day, but it was still Friday. Is this making any sense to you?”

John took out the dratted notes the doctor had taken, pointing to three letters: DRC. 

“Dream-Reality Confusion. It usually happens with people who have borderline personality disorders, or even depression or insomnia, but as far as I know, you suffer from neither.”

Greg shook his head. 

“No, I don't. Sure I don't sleep nearly enough on a case like this, but I'm used to it. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.”

His brow furrowed as he thought about the tattoo he had dreamed about and which became reality so to speak. 

“Did you tell him everything?” 

“Well…” 

He had been such an arse from the beginning, he hadn't wanted to make it worse. 

“You can trust me,” John said. 

“You really are going to think I'm crazy.” 

“I live with Sherlock. Of my own free will.”

Greg chuckled. 

“Fair point. Okay. It's just, that tattoo, when Sally told me, it was the same tattoo I had dreamed about. Even Angels Fall.”

He looked away, not certain he wanted to see the expression on John's face. 

“Could just be coincidence,” John offered. 

“You know what Sherlock says about coincidences.” 

“Yes, but he also thinks the sun goes around the Earth so I would take what he says with a grain of salt.” 

Greg stared at John and laughed. It felt good. He hadn’t really laughed in a while and he felt better for it. 

“Thanks for that, I needed it.” 

“Yes, well,” John shrugged. “I think you just need to take it easy for a while. Rest and stay out of the way of your superintendent before that pick has you sectioned again.”

“I knew it!” 

He had probably called the hospital as soon as he had left the office. John's phone buzzed and he checked it, his shoulders slumping. 

“Speaking of the devil, looks like I'm needed. You'll be alright on your own?”

“Yeah. I'm a grown ass man you know.” 

John smiled and left off, telling him the meal was on Sherlock. Greg left soon after. The place wasn't nearly as pleasant on his own and Angelo was shooting worried glanced his way. Once outside, he had no idea what to with himself, unused as he was to have so. Much free time on his hand. After having worked on that damnable case for weeks too, it felt like crashing down from a high. So he walked home, keeping to the shadows whenever possible because the sun was beating down so hard on the city, making the air itself taste hot and stale. 

He crashed down on his couch and stared stupidly at his TV screen. He might as well unplug his brain. Take it easy, John had said. Doctor's orders. But God, the amount of crap broadcasted… His brain was having an aneurysm at the amount of stupidity it was being subjected to. Is this how Sherlock felt everyday? No wonder he was such an insufferable berk all the time. When his phone rang later that night, his heart skipped a beat. He couldn't help but match this time to its equivalent in his dream, in which they had put the Tattoo killer under lock and key and the other were off to celebrate. Caller ID showed it was Sally and his heart beat faster. 

“Yes?” he asked guardedly. 

Their last encounter hadn't exactly gone well. 

“Sir? I just thought I should inform you we caught him.”

“Good. That's good. Well done Sergeant.”

“May I speak freely?” 

Greg huffed. Sergeant Donovan had given her message, now Sally was asking to give her two cents. And he was the one with borderline personality disorder? 

“Go ahead, Sally.”

“I apologise for this morning. I shouldn't have been so abrupt.”

“We were in bit of a hurry. I understand. You did the right thing.”

It had been damn annoying but he could put himself in her shoes. He might have done the same if the person in charge of a very important case, and had a loaded gun on his person to boot, was acting erratically. 

“So we're good?” 

“We're good, Sally. Don't worry. I'll see you whenever they decide I'm not cuckoo anymore.”

“Everyone's going for a pint to celebrate if you want to come along. Even the Freak will be there.”

And wasn't that familiar? There had to be more to his dream… He couldn't face everyone though, not after they'd seen him lose it, or been told he had a breakdown. Way to make the night of celebration awkward. 

“No, but thanks for the offer. Doctor said I should rest up.”

“Alright. If you're sure. I'll drop by tomorrow though to check on you.”

“Not if you have a killer hangover, you won't.”

Sally laughed and called him silly before hanging up. He wished they didn't work together sometimes so he could ask her out. She was a warm, caring person when she dropped her tough copper exterior. Much too good for the likes of Anderson, to be sure. 

Greg sighed and headed for his bedroom, intent on sleep. He couldn't wait for this nightmare of a day to be over. 


	2. Haynes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings of all kinds for this chapter. Seriously. All the warnings and triggers imaginable. You've been warned.

Friday count: 3

Greg groaned as he woke up to the sound of a phone in the distance. He pushed himself up from his desk, confused since he was sure he had fallen asleep at home for once, in his own bed. Everything was terribly familiar however: the papers on his desk, half written reports, stained mugs of coffee… He checked his calendar, ripping off the old page to show a brand new Friday. He checked his phone and computer too but it was definitely Friday. Again. He waited and held his breath while he stared at the door. Any second now… As he feared Sally burst in. 

“There’s been another, sir! Called in this morning. He’s taunting us.”

“Christ,” he muttered, but not for the reasons Sally thought. 

She nodded gravely and waited for him to follow her. And he did, biting his lip so he wouldn't say anything stupid like yesterday. Or was it yesterday when it was the same day again? This was his third Friday. What the hell was happening to him?

He went through the motions, knowing what he had done the first time around. Giving orders, driving, arriving at the crime scene with everything he saw a perfect deja vu. 

What should he do? He knew what was going to happen, who the killer was, where his victim was right now and what was being done to him. He couldn't just let that happen without trying to change it. But he didn't want to end up in the loony bin like his second Friday either. 

Greg surveyed the crime scene, the yellow tape, the gawkers, Sherlock pushing his way through with his perfect locks bouncing around him, John hurrying behind, taking two steps from every one of the tall git’s strides so that he didn't see the forensic box of supplies Anderson had just left lying around and he tripped over them. John was red in the face as he picked himself up, trying to apologise, but Sherlock cut him off, berating Anderson for his negligence. 

“He's right, Anderson,” Greg cut in, trying to prevent the shouting match from getting as bad as it did last time. 

If he could change this, he could change anything. He could save the victim this time around, and maybe tomorrow would be Saturday. Saving a life was the only thing of worth he thought he could change. 

Sherlock and Anderson rounded on him, both looked taken aback. 

“This isn't a courtyard. If you want to squabble like kids, do it on your free time. Anderson, don't just leave your equipment lying about, it's completely unprofessional.”

He ignored everyone's stares and made his way to the macabre tattoo trophy, just to make sure it was the same one. He would feel pretty stupid if he hared off after a victim, only to find out it wasn't the same. But it was. Even Angels Fall, with the picture of a man falling, his wings broken, loose feathers falling around him. Talk about a tacky tattoo. 

“You alright?”

Greg glanced around to see John, still a bit pink in the face. 

“Shouldn't I be the one asking you? You took quite a tumble.” 

“Yeah, well… Should've watched where I was going. But I'm asking because you usually let those two go at each other.”

“Do I?” he asked, thinking back on the last times it had happened, which was almost at every crime scene they worked together. Greg had to admit he usually couldn't be bothered, having already too much on his plate. Not that he didn't now, because more than ever, he had a lot to deal with. “Looks like I've been giving them too much leeway if they jump at the chance to have a catfight instead of making sure you're alright.”

John shrugged with a lopsided smile, as if he was used to being overlooked. Greg frowned. 

“Is… Erm… Sherlock treating you right?”

John huffed. 

“We're not together. We are not a couple. I am still not gay, if anyone cares.”

Greg chuckled. 

“You protest too much.” 

“So you're saying I should go up to him, snog his tonsils out, and the rumours will stop?” 

“Snog who's tonsils?” Sherlock asked from behind them. 

He shared a look with John, biting back on a laugh as he dared him to tell him what they'd been discussing, but he eventually took pity on the poor doctor. He owed him one after all, for breaking him out of hospital, even if he had no memory of it himself. 

“We were just saying that if you want to shut Anderson up next time, you should just snog him.” 

“Why on  _ Earth _ would I do that?” Sherlock balked, his lips twisted in disgust. 

“Might give him a heart attack,” John offered. 

Sherlock seemed to consider how likely a death-kiss was, before shaking his head and taking out his pocket magnifying-glass. Seeing their focus was elsewhere, Greg slipped out. He knew where to find the victim and he would stop this madness right now. 

It felt like cheating. It was so easy when you knew the who, where and when. So here he was in the killer's lair, gun at the ready, just one door between them. He already knew what he'd tell the others, that he'd had a hunch, nothing serious, but it had paid out. His superior would be too happy for the arrest to care. Sally might be a bit difficult to convince and Sherlock would be a real pain in the arse about not being the one to solve the case, but it would be worth it to be Saturday. 

Only, before he could do anything, a cloth pressed against his mouth and nose. He tried not to breath, to fight back. He knew this MO. It was the Tattoo killer. Too late, too late. His lungs screamed for air and Greg breathed in, the chemicals burning his airways as he inhaled, making him dizzy, sick and plunging him into unconsciousness. 

His head hurt when he opened his eyes. Greg half expected to wake up to a new Friday, and it wouldn't be so bad in comparison to what he did wake up to. The last victim was staring at him. He was naked and tied up, just the way they had found him, except he was still alive, tears and snot and blood marring his face. Greg shuddered at what he must have already gone through, but worse was that Greg had fucked up his rescue mission and wasn't even able to help him now. He was just as naked and just as tied up, his wrists and ankles each tied to one of the bed posts. He knew there was no way out. He had seen how all of the victims had tried, tearing their skin off in a bid to slip off the ties. He knew what to expect next too. The Tattoo killer wasn't far. He could hear him shuffling about and his other victim was following his movements with wide eyes until he was staring at a point right behind him. A weight dipped the mattress on his right and the killer's face brushed his temple to whisper in his ear. 

“Welcome, inspector. I am so glad you decided to join us.”

Greg clenched his jaw. He knew he was just trying to intimidate him. He liked making his victims cry and beg. He liked to break them. Hopefully, if he lasted long enough, Sherlock would find them. How long until then? Ten hours? Nine? It depended on how long he had been unconscious.

“And wasn’t it a nice surprise to see you have such a lovely work of art on your body.”

The killer straddled him and his hand caressed his back here he had gotten a tattoo, what felt like a lifetime ago, when he had lost his brother. He had just been a kid then, thinking he needed to ink his body to remember. He had been so foolish and his mom had given him a thrashing for it. The tattoo, like his memory of his brother, had barely faded over the years, but as the scalpel began to cut his skin away, he wondered what would have happened if he had never gotten a tattoo. Would he be free right now? Left behind with his latest victim while the killer fled the crime scene. Greg gasped when the blade dug deeper, his blood dripping down his back, staining the mattress beneath him, but the killer liked hearing his pain, feeling him squirm away from the blade. Greg could feel him getting aroused against him. The coarse material of his trousers rubbing against his backside even as he cut away at his skin, intent on getting his trophy before he started having his fun.

Oh God, he might be sick. The heat and the tang of blood all around him, his own blood, and the pain, like a thousand papercuts, neverending. He closed his eyes and tried to breath slowly. Don’t scream, don’t give him that.

“Beautiful,” the psychopath murmured as he got off him.

Greg breathed heavily, trying to focus on the creep but seeing him hold up a piece of himself, of his own flesh, made him gag.

“Tut, tut, inspector. It is a marvelous addition to the gallery. Shall I hang it up now, while it is fresh?”

“Yeah, you should do that, you sicko,” he muttered.

With any luck, he’d be caught doing it so late in the morning.

“I wonder,” the killer said and disappeared from view.

Greg was glad for the reprieve. Seeing his skin in somebody else’s hands was just not right, but he was even more glad that he wasn’t able to see his back where he had been skinned. It was still bleeding and it burned and stung. It wouldn’t be long before flies came sniffing around too.

“This is where you live?” the killer asked, holding out his identity card.

Greg glanced at it and nodded.

“But it would be a whole lot more impressive if you hung up my tattoo on my office door.”

The other man chuckled. Greg knew he wasn’t stupid enough to take the bait but was hoping to create an either-or situation where he wouldn’t think of the third, and safer option, to just not hang it up yet. He could see the conflict on his face. He probably didn’t want to break his MO either: Kidnapping his victim, stealing their tattoo and exposing it, and only then torturing them for hours before killing them at the end of the day. Greg held his breath as he watched him internally debate with himself.

“I’ve never had two at once,” he mused and soon, a door slammed shut behind him.

Greg took a deep breath, trying not to lose it.

“He’s gone?” he asked the other victim who looked behind him and replied with a barely audible yes. “You’re Tony, right? That’s your name?”

“Yes,” he replied, louder this time but with tears in his voice.

“It’s going to be okay,” he told him with as calm a voice as he could muster. “The police will find us before the day is out. Just hold on until then, okay?”

“Are you really a copper?”

“Yeah. I’m in charge of this case actually.” 

The other man made a strangled sound that might have been a chuckle.

“Not really reassuring.”

Greg couldn’t say much to that. Not that he wanted to say much to him anyway. He was a victim, but he wasn’t really a very nice man either, having been to prison more times than he could probably count. But Greg had done his job. More or less. If only that bastard hadn’t crept up on him… 

“How did he know I was here?” he asked his fellow prisoner.

“Dunno.” Greg thought that was that, but apparently, Tony was just a very slow thinker. “There was a bell, ya know, like a real one. A ding, and he went out. That’s all I know.”

Greg filed that away for if he ever had another Friday. Oh, God, he hoped this Friday rebooted, if only so he didn’t have this burning itch he couldn’t scratch where his flesh had been torn. He tried to count the time passing. If he left his trophy at his house, it should take him at least an hour back and forth, probably more if he didn’t want to get caught. You couldn’t just walk up to a building and nail a piece of bloody human skin to the door without attracting some attention. But what if that delayed Sherlock from solving the case? No… No, usually, the more data he had, the faster he solved it, so maybe he would kick down the door to this place before the day was out. He tried to figure out where they were right this moment according to the original Friday, and how his disappearance might change the course of the investigation, but he couldn’t come to any conclusion that didn’t sound like wishful thinking.

Then he heard it, a small metallic tinkle. Tony must have heard it too, because his breathing accelerated and his wide, terrified eyes were fixed on the door. The killer walked in, humming a tune he couldn’t quite place. Drat. He must not have encountered any problems. He continued humming as he walked passed his bed, his hand trailing down the length of his bound body, smearing his own blood over the side of his face as he did. Then he continued his walk towards the second bed, doing much the same to Tony, except he whimpered in fear. Haynes was good at it, Greg had to admit, drawing out the moment he would strike like the sadist he was.

“So many options, I’m not sure where to start. Shall I continue playing with you?” he asked, slapping Tony’s ass and making him sob. “Or try out the new one?”

Greg glared at him, but he was tempted to roll his eyes. The man was a walking cliché, as if he had watched too many American slasher movies and was badly emulating them.

“Him, him… not me,” Tony sobbed. "Please. Not me." 

What a bastard, trying to throw him under the bus, only it backfired because what really turned their tormentor on was the fear and pain of his prey, and Tony was radiating both aplenty.

“No. I think we should show him what a nice time he can have here if he’s nice. Isn’t that right, love?”

“No, no, please…” Tony babbled.

The killer took his sweet time taking off his clothes although it was so hot this summer he only had a shirt and cargos on, but he enjoyed the flinch he got from Tony when his shirt hit the ground or when his fly came down. 

Greg bit his lip. What should he do? He didn't like Tony by any stretch of the imagination, but he couldn't very well let the bloke get raped in front of him without doing anything. Damn his sense of duty. What could he do, though? Offer himself? That… No, he couldn't do that. What would Sherlock do? Deduce him to death. He wasn't Sherlock, but he had arrested this bastard before. He'd read his file and found out as much as he could about him when he put his file together. 

“Hey, Phil! Or do you prefer Philip?” 

Haynes, who had been walking around Tony like a wolf circling a prey, stopped in his tracks to face him. He walked closer, strutted really, with his erection bobbing in front of him, cocking his head curiously at him. 

“Or would you rather be called a good boy like your daddy used to do,” that pet name was a shot in the dark. He hadn't had access to such details, but these things usually followed a pattern. Given the thunderous look on his face and his flagging hard on, he had hit the bull's eye. 

“What did you say?” 

“Just curious,” Greg shrugged then regretted it immediately when the movement pulled at the injury on his back. 

“Hurts, doesn't it?” Haynes said and reached forward to knead the cut, tearing a scream from him and making it bleed anew. “You're good at hiding your pain, and your fear, detective inspector, but I'll pull it out of you until you're a sobbing mess like our friend here.”

He returned to Tony and climbed behind him while he tried in vain to jerk away, making the pitiful noises of a trapped animal. 

Not good enough. Greg had probably made it worse in fact. Haynes had been falsely seductive before, but he was plain brutal now. His fingers digging into Tony, hurting more than preparing. But Greg had to  _ try.  _

“Think about your wife, your kids-” 

“Shut up, or I'll tape your mouth shut.”

“How do you think they'll be able to live with themselves when you get caught? When everyone knows?” 

“I'll never get caught. Now, shut. Up.”

“You will. And they'll be so ashamed and disgusted-”

Haynes jumped off the other bed and stalked up to him, snatching something off a table. 

“I said, I warned you, shut up I said…”

Okay, so seeing him this unhinged wasn't all that better after all. 

“You don't have to do this.” 

Haynes struck his across the face then put his threat to execution and taped his mouth shut, pulling it twice around his face so he had no way to pull it off. 

“I know you're just trying to get my attention, but it'll be your turn soon enough,” he said and patted his cheek. “Be patient. For now, you watch.”

Greg shook his head, trying to talk through the gag but it was hard enough to breath as it was. Haynes stood and returned to Tony's bed. He had tried. He had done what he could. Greg sagged back in the sticky, dirty mattress and closed his eyes. He tried not to listen to Tony's whimpers, tried to focus on slowing his breathing, slowing his racing heart, but his head shot up when he heard twin moans of pleasure. His eyes locked on Haynes’ who grinned toothily at him before bucking his hips once more. 

“I told you, inspector, I'll make it feel good. You'll like it. Isn't that right, love?” 

He thrust his hips once more and Tony moaned. He did actually seem to… like it? Didn't mean he wasn't being raped. It was just physiological or something of the sort… right? Haynes seemed to enjoy his befuddlement though, his eyes still on him. Tony on the other hand had his face buried in the mattress, so Greg looked away. He wouldn't want anyone watching him, the least he could do was return the courtesy, but he couldn't escape the slap of skin on skin, the grunts and moans, Haynes’ sick endearments and his climax. Greg wished he could cover his ears. He wished a lot of things right now. 

“Oh, inspector?” he called and Greg reluctantly lifted his head. 

Haynes held Tony's head up, a fist clenched in his dirty blond hair while the other held a knife to his throat. 

“I did tell you to watch, inspector. Maybe this will teach you to listen.”

Greg shook his head, shouting through the tape. No, no, no! But it only came out as unintelligible mumble, and Haynes did it anyway, slashing slowly across the skin which parted like a silky curtain, blood pouring out across the mattress, on the floor between their two beds. Greg stared in horror. This was his fault. His taunting, his disobedience, just his being there… Tony shouldn't have been killed that way, this soon. He should have had a chance to make it out of this hell. He had all but promised him. 

“Just us now, inspector. I think I'll enjoy our time together a lot more.” He dropped his hold on Tony's head, dropping it like a bag of trash, then wiped his knife on the mattress before standing and coming to sit on the bed next to him. “You know, I was thinking about you when I fucked him. I really wished you'd kept watching, but I see voyeurism is a major turn off for you. Another good reason to get rid of this one. Honestly, he wasn't all that much fun. He looked tougher from the outside, but he didn't have much fight in him, not like you.”

Haynes slapped his backside and Greg cursed him, but the inintelligible rant only made him laugh. He wished the nutcase would just shut the hell up instead of chatting as if they were at a fucking tea party. His saving grace was that Haynes wasn't a young man anymore and his refractory period gave Greg some time to think of a way out, but what could he do? Haynes was obviously not going to ungag him or untie him. But if he liked his victims to be reactive, could he fake being passed out? He wasn't sure he wanted to test his patience, or the ways he would use to wake him up but what other option did he have? It might gain him a little time. He was almost certain it was past noon and Haynes had gone out again. He wondered what for. To create himself a semblance of an alibi? To have lunch with his wife? To gloat as he watched his exploits unfold in the news?

The small bell warned him of his imminent arrival, so he forced his body to relax and didn’t so much as flinch when the door creaked open. He kept his breathing even, praying it would gain him even a few precious minutes, but the steps kept coming closer and closer until they stopped right beside his bed. His heart hammered in his chest, as if it wanted to beat its way out of his chest cavity and stopped abruptly when he felt hands on his neck, squeezing. His eyes flew open and he tried to jerk away from the hands, but he could hardly move, and Haynes tightened his hold on him. But Greg knew he wouldn't end it like this, he knew he wouldn't just strangle him. He was playing with him, like a cat did with a mouse. They had found evidence of this particular game on some of his victims. It didn’t stop him from fighting back, his body seeking oxygen, but it was only when dark spots started dancing across his eyes that he was released and he tried getting in as much air through his nose as he could. Damn bastard wasn't even undoing his gag.

His hands didn’t stray far however, they slid back and danced near the edges of his missing tattoo. Greg tensed, fearing he would press down on the wound like he had the last time to punish him, but he leaned over him instead, his lips replacing his fingers, licking him, the old blood and the new, the sweat… It was disgusting really. He felt like he was stewing in his own dirt with the heat steadily rising since that morning, but Haynes made a low guttural sound and continued licking down his body with long, slow strokes of his tongue. Greg tensed, clenching his buttocks reflexively as he moved down his body, but the other man laughed and slapped him across the cheeks. It stung, but it stopped Haynes long enough that Greg could try to speak to him. Well, speak was optimistic with the tape across his mouth, and it only made the other man laugh at him for trying. 

“I have no interest in what you have to say, Inspector. You brought that on yourself. I'm a good listener usually, but you have a filthy mouth on you. Shame, I could have kissed those lips.” 

He cupped his chin and Greg jerked away. What a bloody fucking lunatic. His defiance sparked something in the monster's eyes though, and he took his clothes off, hanging them neatly on the bedpost. Greg closed his eyes, resigned. He hadn't cried since his brother's death, but he would honestly give it a go right about now. Fucking repeating Fridays. The original Friday had been just fine. Why did he have to go through this? What had he done to deserve such a punishment? 

“Shhh, don't worry so much, you'll like it. You saw how your little friend liked it, or you heard it anyway.”

Given Tony’s corpse was starting to decompose just a few feet away, Greg thought that was a piss poor argument. And now he wished he had mind palace like Sherlock so he could escape someplace else, but Haynes made sure his attention was focused on him as he spread his cheeks apart and resumed his licking, his tongue swiping right down the middle and prodding at his hole and fuck… But that wasn't so bad. Weird, but… Greg shook his head and tried to buck him off, but it only made Haynes growl in annoyance and punch his flailed back. The pain was so intense, Greg arched and cried out. He thought he might even have blacked out for a moment, because when he came to, he was gasping for air, large hands strangling him once more. Greg panicked, pulling on his restraints and the hands left his neck. 

Greg was crying now. He could feel the tears even if he didn't know when they'd spilled over, and he wiped his face across the mattress, not wanting to give his tormentor that pleasure. 

“Sorry, love. I thought you were faking it again. Could you try to focus a little here?”

Was he fucking kidding him? Now he understood why he had gagged him, why Tony had been so compliant. The fucking creep was role-playing, as if this was consensual on some level. He couldn't possibly be  _ that _ delusional, but it sure would explain a lot. But thinking of the pain his punches caused and the panic his strangulations did, he wondered if Tony hadn't had the right of it. Be compliant, play his little game and stop fighting back, just until help came… It was choosing the lesser evil really, but at least he was ignoring the fact he had no choice and making one anyway. That had to count for something. He wouldn't break him if he was willing to bend. 

Greg kept repeating himself this little logic loop, like a mantra. Haynes thought he was focusing, and Greg had something else on his mind when cold, slippery fingers pushed into him. It helped him relax. It made this invasion… less painful than it could have been. But he didn't like it. He fucking hated it, being used like this, degraded, and all for the sick fantasies of a very sick man. 

The fingers became warm, or it was just the lube warming up he supposed, then they retreated and the lunatic behind him was still nattering on about something or other. Haynes was probably expecting some kind of a reaction out of him, because when he failed to provide one, he hit his flailed back again. Greg screamed, the sound choked and muffled against the tape once more. It was a terrible sort of pain, which made him sick and want to die at the same time, and Haynes fucking knew it. He thrived on it. 

When his cock, all hard and cold with lube, pressed against him, into him, it honestly wasn't that bad in comparison. But having a cock up his arse for the first time when he didn't ask for it, when he didn't want it, that was worse than the burn and stretch and discomfort. It wasn't the pain of the rape that was going to do him in, it was the shame. 

Greg closed his eyes and repeated his made up, pointless mantra while Haynes slowly thrust in and out of him, his hands caressing him at the same time as if he was a caring lover. But it got worse, because the pain he had inflicted receded and he was left with what he could only categorize as pleasure, despite everything. 

_ Don't fight back. Bend so I don't break. Lesser evil. My choice. Over soon. Don't fight back. _

But the pleasure intensified, and so did the shame, because he was getting hard. He didn't want to but he was. Did he like this? 

_ No. No! _

But he did. He was erect and rutting against the mattress every time Haynes thrust into him. He was getting off on this. He wanted, no,  _ needed _ , to get off. God, he was so hard it was painful. What the fuck was wrong with him? 

“Mhhm, yes. I told you you would like it, didn't I? Good boy. You're a good boy.”

Haynes was murmuring against his ear and that combined with his words was already enough of a turnoff, but then he thrust deeper and came in him with guttural groan. Greg closed his eyes tried to escape, but stuck between his erection beneath him and Haynes’ weight on top of him, there was no escaping reality, only the smothering shame and disgust at himself. 

He tried to think of nothing, but Haynes slipping out of him was another nail in the coffin of his dignity, and then he heard him putter about, whistling that damn tune, as if he hadn't just raped him, as if there wasn't a corpse slowly cooling in the same room. If he thought yesterday had been a confusing dream, today was a nightmare of the worse sort. 

_ Wake up. Please wake up.  _

How did you wake up from a nightmare? He wasn't prone to nightmares, despite his line of work, and the last time he'd had any, his then wife had been the one to shake him awake. 

Something snapped in front of his face. He opened his eyes, noting how much darker it was already. He must have spaced out. It felt like no time at all since  _ that,  _ but the air was cooler and his skin was covered in goosebumps. A shudder ran down his back when he caught Haynes's cool blue eyes. 

“See,” he cooed. “I can be nice when you're a good boy.” 

_ Yeah, thanks you so much for not strangling me to death, you psycho.  _

He kept his eyes on him in case he took that as a challenge to do it. He thought he had a good grasp on what triggered him but he had been proven wrong before, so Greg fell back on his instincts instead. 

“Good boy,” he repeated, passing a hand through his hair as if he was petting a dog. “You look cold. I could warm-” 

He cut himself off, his head tilted to the side as if he was listening for something, his eyes slid to the door and he crouched down low, reaching for his clothes when the door burst open. Haynes gave up on decency and reached for his knife instead, the one he had used to kill Tony. 

Greg knew it was his turn now. Haynes was a maniac. He had to proceed a certain way and couldn't leave a job unfinished. He smiled at him at the shout of “Police!”, his hand and his whole body swinging upwards. Greg expected pain to hit him, not the near miss of a gunshot. Not in these circumstances with the obstacles and lack of light, but it did miss him and Haynes staggered back, pain twisting his own features, and that was good. Greg felt vindicated, if only a little, and he closed his eyes. He wished this was the end of it. He was so tired, but he knew it was only the beginning of something else, and he didn't want to deal with it. 

He flinched at the feel of something on his skin, but it was only a blanket and then, inevitably:

“Lestrade?” 

Greg knew the voice. At least they were letting the doctor handle it. He wasn't sure he could have handled Sherlock, or even his colleagues. He was still taken aback at seeing the gun in John's hand when he opened his eyes. He forgot sometimes that he had been a soldier, too. He hadn't put it away, yet. Too hot? Greg looked between his gun and Haynes. It wasn't difficult, even in his state, to put two and two together. 

“I'm going to take the tape off. Donovan is going to take care of the ties,” John said calmly. 

Greg nodded and kept his eyes on him, because it was easier to look at him than Haynes bleeding out on the floor, or Tony, very very dead on the other bed. The gag came off and he could finally take in a real breath. It would have been nice if the place didn't stink so much of sex and blood and death. Then the pressure on his limbs lessened. He was free but he couldn't bring himself to move on his own, as if he'd been this way so long he was now stuck.

“Do you think you can sit?” 

Greg nodded again. He could speak now, he realized, but the words stuck in his throat. It would do for now. John understood. He helped him move his unresponsive limbs. Up, up, feet down. 

“Keep the blanket tucked under your arm here until we can take care of your back.” 

Nod. Eyes on John. 

“Do you think you can walk?” 

He should be able to. He wasn't hurt that bad, as bad as some of the others had been, but his limbs still felt like so much dead weight. He closed his eyes. God, he was such a mess. 

“That's okay. We can get a stretcher here, but… You'll have to lie back down.”

He shuddered. It was stupid. He would have to lie down again sooner or later, if only to sleep. And he could trust everyone here. Probably. He could trust John however. A fact he knew with ironclad certainty, and he still had his gun on him to boot. Greg tried to ask him to stay, because John usually ran off with Sherlock as soon as a case was done, but no sound made it out. He cleared his throat but even then, his voice sounded as weak and dry as a snapping twig.

“Can you stay. With me?” 

“Yes. Yes, of course. You won't be out of my sight for a second, alright?” he promised. 

Good. He knew he would be safe now. He let go of his tenuous grip on consciousness. 


	3. Oblivion

Friday Count: 4

A phone rang and Greg woke up with a start, pushing himself away from his desk, he was up on his feet in an instant, ready to fight while his chair continued rolling backwards, crashing into his filing cabinets. Disoriented at first, he breathed more easily when he realized he had come back to Friday again. And thanks fucking God for that. He was whole, he hadn't been… molested by that bastard. He was… fine. 

All too soon, Sally came crashing in, her news on the tip of her tongue, but she slowed down and took in the state of his office and himself, brow furrowing at what she was reading there. 

“Are you alright, sir?” 

“Fine. I just… Nightmare.”

Sally nodded and walked up to his desk while he picked up the files which had toppled on the ground in his panic. 

“Do you want to talk about it? It helps. Sometimes.”

No. God, no. The previous Friday had never happened and he would do his best to forget it ever had. It hadn't. He was fine. It did give him an idea though. 

“I got an anonymous tip-off for the Tattoo killer,” he took a shaky breath, glad his voice, at least, sounded casual enough. 

“A serious one? Only we just got a call for another trophy, and if we can head him off before…”

Before he hurts Tony anymore than he already did? Yeah, that would be good. Greg scribbled down the address and thrust it at her. It was out of his hands now. He wanted nothing more to do with that creep. He didn't want to go near him, or that place. 

“I'm putting you in charge Donovan-” 

“You can't!” she protested, trying to hand him back the paper. 

“You know the case better that the other DIs. You know what to do. I'm putting you in charge and that's final. You could get promoted if you handle this well.”

“This isn't some wild goose chase, is it? Where are you going? Where he left his trophy?”

“No. I'll send… Dimmock there. I can't… I'm taking the day off. Tell whoever asks that I'm sick.”

She looked about to argue, but they both knew there was no more time to waste. 

“Thank you, sir,” she said and hurried off. 

Greg sent Dimmock off to the secondary scene and texted Sherlock to go backup Sally, just in case, then he left the Yard and walked a couple of blocks down to the usual hangout for the Yarders. Between the regulars and the night shifts, the place barely ever closed. He found his usual booth and settled in, ordering the first of many pints. He was going to get hammered until he didn't even remember his own name, let alone  _ his.  _

He could take this… this “day off”. He was owed a day off. And if somehow the day didn't reboot this time, he was fine with that. He would get reprimanded and he'd be hard pressed to say who the anonymous tip off was, why he had trusted it and how he had even received it, but he could deal with that. He couldn't deal with the memory of the previous Friday though. 

Raising his hand, he ordered another drink, and another. He waved off the bartender's concern when he couldn't even count the empty glasses before him. 

“Bad day,” he explained and chuckled humourlessly. 

Friday was such a bad day. 

The drinks kept coming, but he still wasn't drunk enough when Sherlock appeared in front of him, soon followed by John. 

“How'd'you find me?”

“How do I find anyone?” Sherlock retorted, which wasn't an answer at all. 

“Riddles,” Greg muttered. 

It was annoying dealing with the Holmeses on a regular day, let alone on a bad day while semi-drunk. 

“Go away,” he added. 

“I will. Believe it or not, but I have far better things to do that watch you make a spectacle of yourself.”

“Sherlock!” John protested. 

“That's alright. He's a kettle.” 

Greg giggled at the twin frowns of confusion. 

“You know pot, kettle, something something… so what d'you want?”

“The anonymous tip off. I want the details.” 

“Don't have 'em,” Greg shrugged, far too drunk to make something up now. 

“Give me your phone.” 

Sherlock held out his hand expectantly, so Greg snorted at him. 

“That might work on John, but-” 

Then Sherlock tried to reach for it himself, his large hand coming closer. Greg's breath caught as the memory of a large hand squeezing his throat flashed before his eyes. The strangling… Greg flinched back, pushing himself further into the booth while the other two men froze in shock. They exchanged hushed whispers before Sherlock stood and left without a word. 

Greg relaxed a bit. Had he been afraid of Sherlock? He  _ knew _ Sherlock. He wouldn't hurt him, not on purpose. He had just been startled, that was all. 

“Lestrade?” 

Greg looked at him. He had taken Sherlock's place, facing him, looking both uncertain and resolute. Greg looked away, hoping all the shame he still felt wasn't spelled out in scarlet letters across his face. 

“Can I call you Greg?” 

Greg nodded. He'd been calling the doctor John for a while, and had thought John was just keeping his distance between his private life and his job as a consultant for the Yard. 

“Did something happen, since yesterday?” John asked with that calm voice of his. 

It always soothed him that voice, without fail. His question, on the other hand, couldn't be answered by a simple yes or no. What was yesterday? Thursday? But that had been three Fridays ago.  _ His _ yesterday, though, his third Friday, yes, a few things had happened, none of which he could, or was willing to speak about. He reached for his half finished pint instead, but John pushed it out of the way. 

“That won't help. It's not a solution. It might feel like it’s better at first, but it’ll get a lot worse if you don’t deal with the problem.”

Greg huffed. 

“I  _ can’t  _ deal with it. There’s  _ nothing  _ to deal with.”

Nothing had happened. That day did not exist anymore, completely obliterated by whatever was happening to him, to time… His body was fine, only the memories hurt, and they weren’t even memories of a real day. Did it make what had happened to him a mere nightmare? 

“Can you tell me about it?”

Calm voice, never pushing, never demanding. Greg looked at John, only now realizing he was always there to take care of him at the end of his Fridays. Not the first one though. The original Friday had been the usual: work acquaintances. Greg was torn between gratitude for the man and wanting to blame him for having somehow screwed up his Fridays, but that didn’t make any sense.

“No,” Greg said in defeat.

“Alright,” John said, surprising him. “I’ll keep Sherlock away. You have my number right? Call me. If you need help getting home, if you want to talk, hell, even if you just want to scream at someone, okay?”

Greg nodded at him, watching him go. The guy was a fucking saint, and Sherlock most certainly didn’t deserve him. Reaching for his beer once more, Greg downed it and ordered another. Oblivion was waiting for him.


	4. Sally

Friday Count: 5

Phone.

“Fucking hell,” Greg mumbled against the papers stuck to his face, not even bothering to move. 

He must have gotten spectacularly black-out drunk on the last repeat because he didn’t remember the end of the day. He didn’t remember even leaving the pub, but surely he would have been kicked out after a while. Greg scoured his foggy memory of yester-Friday but drew a blank. He had finally found an upside to his situation though because he wasn’t hungover at all.

“Sir!” The door burst open. “Sir?”

“Just a minute, Sals, please.”

The door closed carefully behind her and she padded closer, as silent as a cat.

“Greg? Are you alright?”

_ No. I think I want to die. _

“Yeah? Another one, right?” he said instead.

Sally told him what he already knew while he tried to figure out what to do. He’d had his freakout yesterday, it did nothing to get him out of this time loop and he couldn’t keep up this one-man pity-party going if he still had an ounce of respect for himself. He had to look at his unusual situation like a mystery and solve it like the detective he was. Maybe he had been onto something yesterday when he had seen the pattern of John coming to his rescue since the reboot.

So today, he would avoid John Watson and see what that got him. It was an experiment of sorts, and he would find a solution in the end.

They arrived at the crime scene as he had that first time. Sherlock strutted in, John at his heels. He tripped and the shouting match between Sherlock and Anderson was at an all time high while John tried to look inconspicuous. Greg looked away, feeling uncomfortable at something he could have prevented, but he had to stick to his plan, and the rest of the day went much as it had the first time around, only, by keeping his distance from the Sherlock-John duo, Greg noticed he’d gotten closer to Sally this time around and she was giving him strange looks. Of course, that meant Sherlock noticed too, and the berk didn’t like being ignored.

“What’s wrong with you today, Lestrade? You’re the one who wanted my help on this case.”

“Yes, and I’m grateful you’re helping,” Greg replied through gritted teeth.

Not fast enough, since Greg had to block out the memory of what was happening to Tony right now, or be overwhelmed by guilt. What did Sherlock want? A red carpet? More compliments? Sherlock looked about to tear into him and Greg took an involuntary step back, bumping into Sally who had been at his side. He flinched away from the contact, then promptly wanted to dig a hole and bury himself in. He’d been doing so well until then. Why did Sherlock always have to ruin everything?

Greg stalked off, not wanting to deal with that right now. Haynes’ arrest would come soon and he had to prepare himself for that confrontation. He found a corner to smoke the cigarette he had filched off a constable, and had just lit it when he saw John coming his way.

“Can’t catch a fucking break,” he muttered and had to resort to hiding like a kid to avoid the doctor. He walked around the forensic’s van and back the way he’d come. John wouldn’t push him for answers if he was in public, he was too nice for that. Greg returned at Sally’s side, hoping she would keep them at bay.

“Alright?” she asked after checking they were out of earshot of busibodies.

“Fine,” he grunted.

“I heard the freak and Dr Watson talking when you left…”

“And what did they say?”

He had a pretty good idea, given their last encounter, but he had to ask since his lack of curiosity would only raise red flags.

“They think you must have been mugged between yesterday and today, but you were in your office all that time, as far as I know, right? You’d tell me if something like that happened to you.”

Greg pressed his lips together, not wanting to lie to her. They were friends when they weren’t working. It was a tough balancing act given he was her superior, but it worked. Under normal circumstances, he would tell her, but this… The last time, she thought he was having a nervous breakdown and had taken steps accordingly to her rank. He couldn’t fault her that. But telling her the truth was out. A version of the truth though?

“I went out,” he admitted.

For several Fridays in a row.

Sally paled. Her pretty caramel skin turning a shade lighter, taking away the golden hue he liked so much.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“You always say that. What happened?”

Greg glanced around, and shook his head.

“Not here. Tonight, after we catch that bastard.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Sherlock finally had his lightbulb moment and they were circling the building Haynes was lurking in with his prey trapped in his web like a fly. Greg made sure he was the first in and up the stairs. He hadn’t figured out how his alarm system worked yet, nor had Sherlock by the looks of him, so he knew they were coming, they had to be fast to save Tony.

Greg kicked in the door. He had a good memory of the layout and he knew just where Haynes would be standing, ready to take out his last victim. He had an edge over the others and he took it, shooting Haynes before he could strike. His target went down with a groan, the sound making Greg sick as the sound mixed with the smell of blood revived other memories.

“Nice shot,” John commented. “I couldn’t even see him. I’d better make sure he doesn’t bleed out I suppose.”

Greg didn’t answer. He had wanted to kill the bastard, had almost done so just because he could. It was completely justifiable and he had more than enough witnesses, but he wanted out of this time loop, and the time John had killed him had not been enough to break it. Maybe this time, by saving the victim and sparing Haynes… Maybe. He would wait for tomorrow, see if Friday became Saturday.

But first, Sally made good on his promise. They skipped the celebration party to go to her place instead for some privacy. He'd never been before, so he looked around the small cozy flat with some curiosity. He could see her personality in the decors, but a much more girly version of her. It was cute and he couldn't help but smile stupidly at all the pinks and purples, the romance novels in the shelves and the lone teddy bear on the sofa. 

“Don't laugh,” she said in a huff. “I wasn't exactly expecting company. And if you tell anyone, I will let your middle name slip in the break room.”

“You're evil. I have no idea how you got hired by the Yard.”

She grinned and shed her shoes, offering him tea. 

“Something stronger, I think,” he replied. 

Sally nodded and returned with a brand new, old bottle of brandy. 

“Never had a reason to open it,” she shrugged when he asked if she was sure. 

Piss poor reason to open it now in his opinion, but maybe it wouldn't matter, maybe the day would reset and her good bottle along with it. But he would give it a go, this talking about traumatic experience everyone was so intent on getting out of him just because he was a bit twitchy. The tricky part was telling the truth without mentioning the time loops. She handed him a generous helping in a wine glass. 

“You know this is sacrilegious in certain circles,” he teased. 

“I don't drink much. Taste the same to me, though.”

They toasted to that and Greg downed his in one go. 

“Must be pretty bad,” she commented, having only sipped at hers. 

She refilled his glass and left it on the coffee table within easy reach. It took Greg a few minutes to know how to start and get the courage to do so, but even then, mere words felt completely inadequate to describe the horror of what he had experienced. 

“I left the office, found myself on my own. I didn't hear him come behind me.” 

He didn't look at Sally. He couldn't. He reached for his glass instead to have something to look at and to keep his hands busy. But he drank more, too. Liquid courage indeed. 

“I didn't get a chance to fight back or call for help. He gagged me. Used tape. I couldn't move. I couldn't do a damn thing.” 

He saw Sally refill her own glass in the periphery of his vision. She was probably starting to understand he hadn't been mugged, that it was something much darker. 

“He… Well, he wasn't after my wallet. I don't think I need to draw you a picture of what he did. We see our fair share of that in our division, right?”

It was a rhetorical question and Sally didn't answer. No need to point out their cases were beyond helping. They had no experience in dealing with the aftermath of rape, no protocol of phrases to say, of dos and don'ts. Completely clueless, but they had friendship. 

“My God, Greg. I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do? Did you… get yourself sorted out? You know, at the hospital?”

Greg nodded. He had been headed to the hospital even if he didn't remember it. Rebooting the day had sorted out his body pretty well anyway. Now, he was just trying to sort out his mind, but talking about it was a lot harder than he thought it would be. 

He glanced at Sally, her pale face, her knuckles white where she held her glass with too much force. Greg set his own on the table, then reached towards her. 

“May I?” 

She looked between his hand and her glass, nodding slowly. 

“I've been avoiding touching anyone since. That's why I'm a bit… jumpy. But that clues in Sherlock faster than I'd like. He can't keep his mouth shut and keeps setting his doctor after me.”

Sally's lips twitched and Greg took a deep breath before touching her fingers, uncurling them carefully from the glass stem to free the glass and setting it next to his. 

His heart was beating fast, but it had been fine. He knew it would. Sally wasn't a threat and was the opposite of Haynes: a woman, obviously, but soft and warm where he had been cold and hard. Sally held his hand, drawing repetitive pattern over the back of his hand with the other. It was soothing and it was fine. 

Greg sank back in the cushions of the sofa but couldn't relax yet. 

“There's more, isn't there? Do you know who it was? Will you press charges? I'll be with you every step if you do.” 

Greg shook his head. 

“But there's more. I…” he grimaced. “I don't want to go into details, I don't know how…” 

“It's fine,” Sally said when he trailed off, unable to find the words to explain how conflicted he was. “I work with you, Greg.” 

He nodded. They had heard and seen worse, without a doubt, but this was personal. She might despise him when he told her, but he had to get it out, to know if he was abnormal for reacting the way he did. 

“When he was… doing things to me, I- I hated it, I didn't want it but… some things… felt good. I thought maybe something was wrong with me and I'm even more… ashamed,” he finished lamely. 

Sally kept patting his hand so he glanced at her, surprised to see none of the revulsion he had been expecting, only careful consideration. 

“Well, I'm not expert of the inner workings of men, obviously, but wasn't that just a physiological response? You said yourself you didn't like it, but the sensations were forced on you, whether it was pain or pleasure. It was just your body reacting. You can't help that. No one can.” She hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe Dr Watson would have been a better choice after all. I'm sure he could explain it a lot better. Do you think you could talk to him? I can be there if you want, too.”

John again. He had a knack for coming up even when he wasn't around. 

“I'll think about it.” 

It did make sense, and maybe John had come across patients like him before. If avoiding the doctor didn't help breaking the loop, he would ask him. 

“Thank Sally.”

“Movie and pizza?” 

“You read my mind.”

It was a nice evening, better than any he'd had in a long time. Maybe later, and hoping Sally was made DI soon, maybe they could give it a try, the both of them. 


	5. John

Friday Count : 6

Phone. 

Maybe he could pretend to be asleep the whole day? 

“Sir!” 

She stopped short when he didn't react so Greg went through the tedious effort of raising his head to grin at her. He'd had a great night thanks to her and he was pretty sure they had fallen asleep on the sofa while watching the movie. 

“Did you get lucky last night?” 

Greg chuckled. 

“No. Nothing like that. What's up?” 

“There's been another.”

“He’s taunting us,” Greg said, stealing her reply. 

He'd get his fun out of the situation where he could, and Sally's befuddled face was priceless. She got her revenge by needling him during the car ride, because she knew and hated that he was hiding something from her. Greg couldn't give up any of his secrets though, her being one of them was just the cherry on the cake. 

His objective for the day was John Watson. Greg didn't have a new plan to break the time loop anyway so he would use his time to put what Haynes had done to him behind him, or at least understand his reaction to what had been done to him. It could only help at this point, and time would do the rest. 

He had driven a bit faster than usual so he would get there before Sherlock and John, and yet, he still got there at the last second to catch John after he tripped over Anderson's clutter. It wasn't much of an improvement. John was still blushing furiously, but at least he wasn't hurt. 

“Anderson!” Greg bellowed before Sherlock could start. “Get your shit together!” 

He was surprised when Sherlock chuckled darkly. 

“Good one, Graham.” 

“Greg,” John corrected automatically. 

“Don't bother. He's doing that on purpose to annoy me.” 

“Is it working?” Sherlock asked. 

“Just seeing your face annoys me, no need to make it personal. Well, here it is. Have fun with it, or whatever it is you do.”

He had no intention of looking at Tony's missing piece. Knowing his own had been nailed to a door in some forgotten, alternate Friday made his skin crawl. He lit his cigarette and sat on the large porch one door over. 

“Not looking at the crime scene?” John asked, sitting next to him. 

Bingo. John always appeared out of nowhere. 

“I've had my fill. You?” 

“Not much of a corpse. I'm useless, apparently.”

Greg snorted. Useless is the last word he would use to describe him. 

“Sherlock tell you that?” 

“Yeah.”

“Berk.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

They laughed and Greg took another long drag before blowing the smoke out of John's way. 

“Those will kill you, you know?” 

“Not today they won't. I'll quit tomorrow.”

“That's what all addicts say.”

In his case, tomorrow might never come, so it wasn't much of a gamble. He wondered if now was a good time to ask the doctor about his problem. No one had found out what had happened to him yet. He hadn't recoiled when he broke John's fall, but he had initiated that contact so he would still have to keep his reactions in check. His question didn't have to have to be of a personal nature though, which might make this conversation easier. 

“Can I ask you a question? As a medical expert?” 

“Sure, go ahead. Maybe I can prove to Sherlock my PhD is actually useful.”

Greg glanced around, reassured no one was within hearing range. 

“It's not for this case, mind you, but there are similarities.” There, that wasn't even a lie. “When… If someone, a man in particular, is molested, how… Erm… common, or normal, is it for him to feel pleasure, during the, ah, act?”

A muscle twitched in John's jaw as he looked him dead in the eyes. 

“It depends,” he finally answered. “Rape is the lack of consent, but it doesn't necessarily mean it is physically violent or painful, and I am talking purely physically here, because going against someone's consent is a form of violence in itself. Physiologically, however, you answer to stimuli.” He paused in thought. “Did you do the frog experiment in school?”

Greg thought about it for a second. School was a long way off but he didn't remember anything that involved a frog.

“No, I don't think so.”

“I guess I had a pretty weird teacher, but it's what got me interested in biology as a kid. He dissected a frog, so, dead of course, then pinched a nerve near its spine and the whole leg jumped up. The stimulus created a physical reaction. The-”

John was cut off by shouts coming from the crime scene, and he rolled his eyes. 

“So take Sherlock and Anderson. Sherlock could kiss him and Anderson would not want it, but it doesn't mean he wouldn't like it, enjoy it even.”

Greg nodded, but wondered if anyone would really refuse to be kissed by the git. 

“But to answer your question, I can't say whether it's frequent, but it's possible, and it doesn't mean the victim's reaction isn't ‘normal’. It's purely physiological. Does that help?”

Greg thought about it, but it was more the feeling of relief knowing he wasn't some sort of sexual deviant that had him nodding in return. Haynes had wanted him to feel pleasure and had done his utmost so that he didn't cause him any pain during the act… Then he realized Haynes must have purposefully hurt him just before. The pain had been so intense that even if he cause him a little pain while raping him, it might not even register, and he'd been on high alert, so would that exacerbate the pleasure… Greg sighed, because now he had  _ more _ questions, and as much as he didn't want to clue John in, today was a day dedicated to getting answers. John wouldn't even remember when the day reset anyway. 

“Can I ask another question?” 

John nodded, his face grave compared to when he'd first joined him. Way to darken a bloke's day.

“Pain can release adrenalin, right? Danger, too.”

John nodded. 

“Can that exacerbate the pleasure too?” 

John's eyebrows rose slightly but he was good at keeping a blank face when he wanted to. He was usually very expressive, but Greg couldn't read him at all now. Maybe that was his ‘doctor face’.

“Well adrenalin would cause a chemical ‘high’, so to speak, which blocks pain and makes you feel good. It also gets your heart rate up, so yes, it could contribute to heightening the feeling of pleasure in that moment.”

He stopped and scrutinised him. Greg looked away though, afraid he might be able to read him, the relief he felt. He stood and flicked the butt of his cigarette in the gutter. 

“I'd better make sure Anderson is still breathing,” he said. “Thanks for the help.”

“Anytime,” John replied. “I mean that,” he added before he could walk away. 

Greg nodded and hurried away, certain John suspected now. His questions might have been too specific after all. The doctor's eye followed his every movement most of the day too. It was a bit unnerving at first, but he got used to it. He had lived through this kind of reboot twice already so he knew to avoid the civilian who unexpectedly walked around the corner of the street, and dodge that constable’s hand as he tried to hand him something, and be careful that one time Sherlock stopped unexpectedly in the middle of the crime scene because he had just thought of something… As long as he didn’t change the day too much, he could remember most of everyone’s movements. The perks of being a cop: a good memory and sense of observation.

When they got to the last leg of the journey, Greg lagged behind this time, letting the SCO19 team go in, guns blazing. That done, Haynes dead along with Tony, Greg had no choice but to go up again while his forensic team did their job. The last time, he’d left Sally in charge while he excused himself to question both the victim and killer. With both of them dead this time, he couldn’t very well justify leaving the crime scene, but everywhere his eyes fell brought back flashbacks of that third Friday at the hands of that psychopath. The roll of tape on the table, the other bed, the one he’d been tied to, pushed in a corner, the cord that had been used to tie them and the knife… bloody and abandoned on the stained floor. Greg looked away and walked towards the boarded up windows since he hadn’t so much as seen them before. A bit of fresh air made it through the cracks too and he took the opportunity to get himself back under control, but then someone must have walked in the building and the small bell they still hadn't found dinged, making him panic, and he had to leave, he couldn’t stay there. He pushed passed his agents and made it outside to the empty lot next to it.

Fucking hell. Frightened by a stupid bell of all things. Was he ever going to get past it? It hadn’t even happened to him, technically.

“Locker doors.”

Unsurprisingly, John had followed him out. Given how closely he had been watching him all day, he had probably expected something of the sort to happen. Didn’t mean he understood what John meant by that.

“That’s what does it for me. Can’t go to the gym because of those damn lockers. When Moriarty kept me in the swimming pool changing room, they freaked me out more than he or the bomb did.”

Oh… 

“When?” 

“Uni. Team mate got ‘carried away’ after a match.” 

“So it never goes away,” Greg concluded, morose. 

“I don't think about it most of the time. It will get better with time.” John shuffled where he stood, an arm's length away, looking both like he wanted to get closer and weary of doing so. “Do you want to talk about it? You've probably been told before, but it does help.”

“Yeah, it might have been mentioned a few times.”

By John himself in fact. Greg wondered if after enough Fridays, everyone would sound like a broken record. But he'd promised himself to make good use of this day, and John already knew, so he might as well take him up on his offer. 

“Can we meet up tonight?” Greg asked. 

“Sure. We can go eat somewhere. I feel like I haven't had a decent meal since we started this case.”

“Angelo's?” Greg guessed since that's where he'd taken him the last time. 

“Sounds good.”

John left soon after, following his consulting detective, while Greg used any and all excuses not to go back up there. It felt cowardly, but that room was basically his personal hell on Earth, accessories included. 

“Are you coming, sir?” Sally asked later that day, poking her head out through the door to his office. “Everyone is going to the pub to celebrate.”

“Even Sherlock?” he asked. 

“Course not. Don't be ridiculous.” 

Greg chuckled. He should have known Sherlock had gone that first time only because John had bullied him into it. 

“Sorry, got other plans. Have fun, Sals. You deserve it.”

Of course Sally latched onto the first part and closed the door behind her. 

“Other plans? Does this have anything to do with you getting lucky last night?” 

Greg rolled his eyes. 

“For the last time, Sally, I did not get any last night.” He doubted he'd want to anytime soon. “I'm just meeting… a friend.”

He considered John a friend after all those Fridays where he had helped him, and it was sad that friendship died every time the day reset. 

“A friend? You have friends outside the Yard? You'll have to tell me how you achieved that miracle.”

“Well, I didn't look very far,” he admitted, realizing too late he had said too much when her eyes sharpened. 

“Oh no, don't tell me it's the Freak.” 

“Stop calling him that, and no. It's John.” 

“John Watson? Oh, well, he's alright, I suppose. I didn't know the Freak shared his boyfriend. He's pretty cute.”

“I don't think they're actually dating,” Greg said, although he wasn't quite convinced himself by John's repeated denials. 

“Well, if you're not interested, I might tap that.”

“Can't believe you just said that.” 

“I'll have you know finding an eligible man is really difficult nowadays.”

“I'm pretty sure Dimmock has a crush on you,” Greg offered to cheer her up. 

“I don't think he's old enough to shave,” she stage whispered. “See you! Enjoy your date!” 

Greg shook his head, but followed her lead. He didn't want to be late to Angelo's, even if it wasn't a date. 

John waved at him through the window, which made it seem much less like a date. Damn Sally for putting that idea in his head. He was hardly seated when the large cook appeared at their table with two steaming plates and a bottle of wine, having once more decided of their order for them. He was kind of impressed to see the same dish, so he really had these tailored to each individual. 

They exchanged smalltalk at first, which Greg was grateful for because he really was hungry, and knew talking about Haynes would vanish his appetite as surely as Sherlock vanished his handcuffs. The wine put him at ease, as did John and his easy going manners. He had to agree with Sally too, the doctor was cute in an understated sort of way, but he mostly went unnoticed next to Mr Cheekbones. Poor bloke. 

The restaurant was almost empty and they were nibbling on strange, dry Italian biscuits when John finally broke the subject. 

“When did it happen?” 

Greg counted back the numbers of Fridays. It was a bit confusing at times, but it's not like he could keep notes from one Friday to the next. Thy would disappear as surely as his injuries had.

“Four days ago.” 

John dropped his biscuit, fumbled to pick it up and almost knocked over his wine. 

“Jesus. I was still curled up in a ball crying four days after. Why didn't you take some leave?”

Greg shrugged. He couldn't very well explain it would be no use. 

“Too busy.” 

John huffed, but didn't try to convince him otherwise. 

“You've seen a doctor?”

“Yeah, I'm…” 

He had been about to say fine, but that was so far from the truth, he couldn't bring himself to say it. John's lips pinched in understanding. 

“It's my head that's messed up," Greg said instead. “That's why I asked you those questions. I thought that if I understood better, I could put it behind me faster, but now you're telling me it won't ever go away. Christ. I was so stupid. If only I hadn't gone on my own-”

“Don't. It's not your fault. Don't ever think it is. What if I'd showered faster? What if I hadn't made eye contact? What if I hadn't been openly bi? What if I'd fought back harder? Don't you think I didn't ask myself a hundred other questions along those lines? It doesn't help. It's not your fault, and all the what-ifs in the world won't change that.”

That was a lot to take in, but he could see the truth in his words, his own experience. He knew exactly what he was going through. He understood all the confusion and self recrimination and shame. Another weight lifted from his shoulders. John was chipping away at his torment, a little at a time. 

“And the guy responsible?” he finally asked. 

“He won't be a problem, for me or others.”

A gleam flashed through John's eyes. Nothing to do with the doctor, that was the soldier peeking through. He gave a nod of approval. 

“Did you know him?” 

“No. It was nothing personal. I was just in the wrong place, at the wrong time.”

All these puns about time loops and no one to share them with. He wished he could tell John about it, or anyone really. It was getting lonely being the only one to know they were all stuck in a never ending Friday. And he realized that even though he had wanted to talk to John, he couldn't without telling him  _ everything.  _

“Any chance Sherlock can teach me his “delete” trick?”

“Just between you and me, I don't think it actually works. It's just his excuse for when he actually forgets something like a normal human being.”

Normal. There was no such thing as normal in this world. If time loops were a thing, what was to say aliens and ghosts weren't a thing too. How could he convince him? 

An idea came to him, but it seemed a bit morally reprehensible. However, since he already knew one of John's secrets, he might as well dig for more, then use the information to convince him the next time around. Chances were very slim, but maybe that was the key to breaking this curse: convincing someone else they were all stuck in a time loop, even if he was the only one to realize it.

So, using all his detective tricks, he got John to talk about himself, to open up because he was usually quite private. What he didn’t expect was his respect for the bloke to grow, and he was funny too. He ended up enjoying his evening and he even thought about telling John about what was going on but he had drunk more than was reasonable and he knew John wouldn’t believe him for a second, putting his wild tale on account of the wine.

His only regret was that John would forget about today once more, and the friendship they’d been building would tumble down to ruins come morning.


	6. Reset

Friday count: 7

Greg was up like a shot upon hearing the familiar ring of the phone in the distance, as if coming up for air. It was a strange sensation, unnatural, but everything was nowadays. Before he tried anymore of his hair brained ideas, he had to learn more about the time loop and the easiest way to do that was not sleep through the reset. He only had to stay awake and see what happened. How hard could it be?

Alright, maybe a little preparation wouldn’t be amiss. He had to be in tip top shape so he didn’t fall asleep halfway through his surveillance. From what little he knew, the reset could happen anywhere between midnight and eight o’clock, so, when Sally barged in as she always did, Greg faked not feeling well, coughing unconvincingly a couple of times before putting her in charge and running off before she could stop him.

He booked the biggest room in the poshest hotel he could find. He might as well go all out, because even if it cost him a month’s salary, it’s not like it would matter when the day inevitably reset. 

It was a good investment too, because Greg fell back asleep immediately and couldn’t remember sleeping this well in forever. It was already late afternoon by the time he woke up, so Greg ordered room-service for anything that caught his fancy and which he had never had a chance to try before, or afford. He even tipped the boy generously after he promised to keep him supplied in coffee all through the night. Being rich was fun. He could technically do almost anything… Buy a fancy car, shave his head, go sky-diving… He wondered if others - because he doubted he was the first or only person to have been caught in a time loop - had taken advantage of their situation. Hell, he could kill someone and they’d be fine come the next reset. No real harm done. 

Well,  _ Greg _ couldn't. Not really. It went against everything he stood for, against his very nature, but he could see how some people would act out their fantasies just because they could without suffering any consequences. Anderson would enjoy killing Sherlock, for example. Sally would slap the Superintendent for being a chauvinistic pig. Sherlock might finally confess his love for John and John might give in to the urge of kissing Sherlock… It was liberating in a way, he had nothing to lose, and what was he doing? Sitting in an empty hotel room, drinking coffee as if it was going out of fashion so he could wait out the next reset.

Greg chuckled at how fucking  _ reasonable _ he was being, but what  _ would  _ he do, if he could? Was he really so boring that he couldn’t think of a single crazy thing he would like to indulge in? Maybe his ex wife had been right to fall out of love with him…

He should at least treat this anomaly like a vacation, like he was doing today, but just for the sake of it and it because he was investigating said anomaly. Although, next time, he would skip the lobster because it tasted kind of bland. He’d rather have a good old greasy fish and chips, and with that thought in mind, Greg knew he would never change, not even to take a break. He was just a boring old copper, and always would be. 

Besides, this time loop gave him the heebie jeebies the way the most gruesome crime scenes he had investigated had not. All he wanted was to find a way out of this anomaly, back to real life, where what you did actually mattered and had consequences, where the whole day wasn’t simply wiped out of existence during the night. And not just the events, but the people too. It was as if they were not real anymore, and that scared him most of all.

Like Sally, who barged into his office every morning at the same hour, saying the exact same sentence. It was unnatural. She might as well be a cardboard cut out or a video game character. And the way she went through reset, forgetting everything, like that evening they spent together, getting closer, sharing… dust the next day. There was no way to build anything in this loop.

It was even worse with John with whom he had just started to build a friendship. In the morning, he might as well call him Detective Inspector, as if they were strangers, and they sort of were, because their conversations, their confidences never happened, not for John.

The way he saw people now was starting to take a toll on him too. He knew exactly where Tony was, and what he was going through, and yet, here he was, sleeping through the day and eating lobster without a care. He let it happen to the poor guy as if he wasn’t a real person. Even now, Greg struggled to see him as one, but maybe it was made worse by the fact that he didn’t know him. If it were Sherlock or John… he would intervene every time. Still, how long until he dehumanized them too? He knew a slippery slope when he saw one.

As if on cue, Sally called to give him the news that Haynes had been arrested, but not before he had killed Tony. Scenario one, then. The original. So, whether Greg was there or not did not even matter in the grand scheme of things? The day had repeated itself as the original Friday despite his absence. What did it mean? That  _ he _ didn't matter? That he was of no consequence in this world? An incoming text interrupted his dark thoughts. 

**Why are you pretending to be sick? - SH**

Greg snorted. Of course he knew. He entertained the idea of telling him to mind his own business, but that might just spur him on into finding why he was skipping work. He wouldn't have any trouble finding him all the way into this unlikely place either. No, better play it safe and ignore him. Something shinier would catch his attention soon enough. Unfortunately, his phone signaled another text waiting for him and Greg was too curious himself to ignore it. 

**What Sherlock meant to say was get well soon. Everyone misses you at the pub. John. **

Greg frowned. That too had happened on the first Friday, which confirmed that whether he was there or not made no difference at all. John said they missed him, but only because he was a bloody Saint, but proof was he was insignificant. He might as well not exist. Was that what the universe was trying to tell him? 

The rest if the evening was spent brooding. He didn't even answer John's text because what was the point? He'd forget about it the next day. Instead Greg drank coffee and flipped through telly stations until midnight finally rolled around. Ha! Now that he thought about it, it was technically Saturday, but for how long? One o'clock. Two. TV programs were getting steadily worse and so was his mood. If he found out the way to stop the time loop was simply not to sleep that night, he was going to punch something. 

He checked the clock regularly so Greg knew it was close to four in the morning when dark spots clouded his vision. Greg tried blinking them away, putting it on the count of coffee overdose or just plain exhaustion. It did nothing however and rubbing his eyes only made it worse. He began to panic as darkness filled his vision. He couldn't see, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't… He was going to choke, suffocate-


	7. Hell

Greg woke up at his desk with a gasp. His heart was still hammering from the panic living through the reset had caused. He heaved in a long breath of sweet, sweet oxygen and tried to relax, the pounding in his ears dimming as his heart rate slowed. He must not have heard the phone ring in his state however, because Sally was already barging in with her usual gimmick. 

"There's been another. Called in this morning. He's taunting us." 

Then she looked at him and stopped in her tracks. 

"You look like shit. Are you sick?"

Greg shook his head. His little experiment hadn't helped him at all. If anything, he felt worse. He was no closer to a solution and isolating himself from the case had only proved how pointless his very existence was. 

He grunted at Sally when she persisted. He didn't want to have to make something up. What was the point? Why should he even try? He would only have to start over the next time. Sherlock was right: repetition was tedious, and at this level, it was hell. So he followed the familiar patterns, like a leaf carried by the rainwater in the gutter, and the day progressed as it usually did around him. 

Maybe this was  _ really _ hell, and not just a figure of speech. He must have died that first Friday around four o'clock in the morning. A heart attack at his desk no doubt, without anyone noticing, without anyone to care. He had… nothing. In the end, when it mattered, he had nothing. 

Greg looked over the edge of the roof he had come up to for a smoke. He had never come here the other Fridays, but he had never been wallowing this deep in self-pity before either. The others were currently grasping at straws downstairs and it was painful to watch them fumble about when he knew everything that was about to happen in the smallest detail. He could just tell them who did it and where to find him, but what was the point in that? They'd go arrest Haynes, again. Tony would be killed, again. Or not. It didn't even matter, because the day would just start over. 

Maybe he should just end this farce sooner by jumping off the roof. Maybe that was the ticket out of this hell of a time loop. If not… Well, it wouldn't hurt. Next Friday would just start sooner and he'd be right as rain. 

"Hey." 

The voice was quiet so as not to spook him. Greg was rather close to the edge, he supposed, whether he was really going to jump or not, so he took a reluctant step back and turned around. He was not surprised to find John standing there, his watchful eyes on him once more. The doctor should not be there. He had never come up here the other Fridays from what he could remember, but when had that ever stopped John from coming after him?

"Hey, John."

John sidled closer, slowly. Greg wondered if maybe he was afraid of heights, or if he was still trying not to spook him. Had it been that obvious he had been considering jumping? 

"Sally is worried about you."

"Sally, is it? Since when have you two become so chummy?" 

"Today, actually. We got talking. She thinks you're hitting a rough patch, and after observing you since this morning, I gotta say I agree." John took another step closer. "Do you want to talk about it?" 

Greg couldn't help himself: he laughed, but there was no joy in it, only the despair he'd been plagued with all day. There was so much to say, some he had already told John, but it had been wiped away with each reset, so what was the point? Besides, most of it John would not even believe, and Greg was so damn tired of the whole thing. He glanced over the edge, at the smooth asphalt down below calling to him. He had never been suicidal and wasn't even contemplating his own death right now, but maybe a way out of this hell. He was probably dead already anyway. 

"It doesn't matter," he told John with a wave towards the city sprawled in front of them. "None of this is real."

"What do you mean?" 

John was good. His voice was calm, but his eyes betrayed his fear. He tried taking another step closer towards him, but then he would be within arm's reach, and Greg wouldn't put it past the man to pull him away from salvation despite his smaller stature. Greg raised his hands to stop him from getting closer and backed towards the edge. He could feel the void behind him even if he didn't see it and maybe it was for the best. He didn't want to chicken out now. 

"I'm sorry to do this to you, John. I didn't plan on you coming up here. But don't worry, you won't remember it tomorrow."

"Greg, please. That doesn't make any sense. Step back from there, please, and we can talk about it." 

John was so earnest, Greg almost wavered. But he wasn't even real, just one version of John Watson. None of this was real, and he would prove it. 

"Sorry," Greg said again, because he might not be real, but John sure looked to be in pain.

He jumped. 

The fall felt like an eternity and no time at all. The weightlessness was a feeling like none other. He closed his eyes. 


	8. Special

That damn phone again. Hell it was then. Sally came in and he had no time to devise a plan of what to do that day. He was running out of options, and if even ending his own life didn't solve the time loop, he didn't know what would. Solving the case any which way had not worked out either. But if the key had nothing to with him or the case, what was so special about this Friday? The fourth of August? It didn't ring any bells and nothing was scribbled in his agenda. Even the calendar indicated it was just a plain old day, no religious meaning to it or anything. 

"What's so special about the fourth of August?" he asked Sally, ignoring her usual greeting and the fact they had a serial killer on the loose. 

"You mean personally, or in general?" 

"Either." Greg shrugged. 

"Well, it's my Gran's birthday." 

Greg chuckled at the unexpected piece of information which was of absolutely no use to him, but Sally tutted him and continued. 

"Which is why I remember it's also the day you signed you divorce papers. Exactly one year ago." 

Greg's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. He had been doing so well at putting his failed marriage behind him that he had not even thought of that fateful day. A mere formality in the end, a piece of paper to sign, and a whole facet of his life had been shed off like so much dead weight. Since then, Greg had buried himself even more in his work, because what else did he have to live for? But it had to mean something. The dates couldn't be a coincidence, right? 

"I have to go," he told Sally. "I'm leaving the case to you." 

He knew she would do just fine without him after all. He rushed out of his office before she could stop him or demand an explanation, then he took his car and drove all the way to his ex-wife's new place. He only knew where she lived because he had wanted to avoid her neighbourhood as much as possible. Once there, he had no idea of what he was supposed to do, but maybe seeing her would clue him in. 

So he waited, feeling a bit like a stalker, but well past caring at this point. The house she lived in was cosy, better than anything he'd been able to afford, and the scene they painted was picture perfect as they shared breakfast in the kitchen, making googly eyes at each other. He lost sight of them for a while, then she was at the door with her new beau, kissing him goodbye as he left off for work. Greg expected to feel… something. Jealousy, envy, or even nostalgia at seeing his ex-wife with another man, especially the loving-way she was treating the new guy compared to how she had been with him, or of how pretty she still was, and happy… But no, he still only had contempt where she was concerned, even now, a year after he had buried their marriage for good. 

He pondered what to do now, hoping he wasn't supposed to win her back or something as distasteful, because that was the last thing he wanted to do. However, there  _ had to be _ a link between the time loop and their divorce. The date was too coincidental to be otherwise. 

But before he could talk himself into walking up to her door and test the waters, another car parked in front of her door. The owner sauntered out and hurried into the house as if he owned the place, leaving little doubt as to why he was there. Greg even glimpsed them briefly through a window on their way up. A groan of disgust escaped him at seeing his ex up to her old tricks. 

Nope. 

Not going there. 

If he thought patching things up with her was difficult before, he knew it was now impossible. Not now, not ever. He'd rather stay in this limbo. 

Driving off, he caught up to his team, knowing exactly where they were at this hour: the lab in St Barts. He got there just in time to stop the row between Sally and Sherlock, too. 

"How did you know where to find us anyway?" Sally asked, ever the observant one, but as long as it derailed her from her rant about Sherlock's handling of the evidence, he didn't mind. 

"Believe it or not, Sals, but I am a detective."

Sherlock snorted, about to say something unflattering no doubt, but John elbowed him none too subtly before he got a chance. Greg faltered at meeting John's blue eyes, regretting how cruel he had been last Friday, jumping off a building before his very eyes the way Sherlock had done. This might not be the real world, but the people sure seemed to have genuine feelings of their own, even if they were wiped away when four o'clock rolled around. 

Lost in thought, Greg hadn't realized he had been staring until John turned away with a blush colouring his cheeks. Interesting. Especially since the good doctor always claimed, loudly and most emphatically, that he was  _ not gay _ . Greg cleared his throat and asked about their progress on the case during his absence, listening with half an ear since he knew so much more than them. 

"So did you sort it out? Whatever you left to do this morning?" Sally asked him once she had finished filling him in. 

"Yeah, sorry about that. I thought the Universe was trying to tell me something." 

"Is it?" Sally asked with a twinkle of amusement dancing in her pretty doe eyes. 

Greg gave it some serious thought: if the universe wasn't telling him to get back with his ex, maybe it was telling him to get over her by finding someone else. 

"Well, it's either fucking with me, or telling me I need a good fuck." 

Sally burst out laughing, earning herself a thunderous glower from Sherlock and a curious look from John. Greg smiled fondly at the sight of her as she wiped tears of mirth from her eyes. He had always liked her laugh. A shame it was such a rare thing. 

The precious moment was lost when Sherlock suddenly jumped up with a new lead, and they were all off again, chasing after him. Greg knew it would lead to a dead end, but he went along anyway. This whole day was a dead end. But what else was he supposed to do? Getting mixed up in the case had brought him nothing but grief, so he took a backseat and ignored Sherlock's snide remarks about his uselessness. 

However, he could swear Sally was not her usual self and he was so stuck on figuring out what had happened differently to cause this shift that it took him an embarrassingly long time to realize she was flirting with him. Nothing too obvious, it wasn't her style, but he knew her well enough that he should have noticed the way she shifted closer to him with that secretive smile of hers, and know what it meant. 

"Do you suppose we'll be stuck working all through the weekend again?" she asked with a sigh, playing with her curls in such a way that her sweet scent wafted over him whenever they bounced back. 

Yep. Definitively flirting with him. Greg was both flattered, because she was much younger than he was and quite frankly out of his league, but also reluctant to act on it since he was her superior and that was a can of worms waiting to blow up in his face if it didn't work out between them, or if his own superiors learned about their involvement. 

Except… There was nothing at the end of this day. Friday would reset and there would be no consequences. Ever. 

Greg bit his lip. As John would say: a bit not good. It was morally reprehensible, at the very least, as he would be taking advantage of her on some level. 

"Greg?" 

"Uhm? Oh, no. Sherlock will solve the case by the end of the day." 

"Want to bet on that?" Sally asked with her mischievous smile. So much flirting. 

"Sure. A tenner he finds the Tattoo killer by eight."

"Fine. I'll bet you dinner he doesn't."

Dinner? Dammit. Sally was really going all in, and the way she leaned into him… Fuck, he wasn't made of stone. And this was  _ Sally.  _ He had already thought about asking her out a few times, but he had been waiting for better circumstances, for her to be promoted for example, so they had more of an equal footing. Unfortunately, that would never come to pass, not with this damn time loop. There would never be a better time, only today. Again and again. 

Might as well make the most of it. 

"You're on," he said and shook her hand, his own lingering longer than necessary, basking in the warmth she radiated. "Mind you, I only eat in fancy places." 

"Right," she snorted. "I'll make sure they have paper napkins." 

The bet with Sally kept him entertained for the rest of the day as he teased her about winning, and Greg let himself forget about finding a way out of the time loop, enjoying the present instead for once. It was liberating in a way, and almost like it was a new day.

"I can't believe he actually found him," Sally said when Haynes was being carted off. "I still don't get how he did it." 

"Something about dirt, I think," Greg replied. 

Despite having heard Sherlock's explanation about a dozen times, he was as clueless as Sally was right now. 

"Paperwork is going to take forever," she groused.

"Let's skip it for tonight," Greg said, knowing it didn't matter anyway. "I think the whole team deserves a break after all the hard work they put in these past weeks. There's no way that creep will find a way out of custody, not even if he hired the the devil himself as his lawyer." 

Sally's face lightened. 

"Straight to dinner, then? My treat, you swindler. What do you fancy eating?" 

"How about we order take-out at your favourite Indian, and we can hunker down on your couch with our shoes off and a good movie on?"

"It's like you read my mind." 

"Well, we have been friends for… what? Five? Six years?" 

"At least," she said with a grimace. "Stop making me feel old. Here, I'll drive." 

Greg tossed her his keys, which she easily caught one handed. How many times had they done this? It was so easy between them. Of course, it hadn't always been. When Sally had been as blue as a summer's sky, they had butted heads more often than not because she thought she knew better. Now however, they moved and worked together like a well-oiled machine. They had the same humour and understood each other well, except where relationships were concerned. Sally had always hated her ex, even before they had gotten a divorce, and for good reason as it turned out. Greg, on the other hand, couldn't fathom why a woman as smart and strong as she was would let the likes of Anderson anywhere near her person. It made him gag just to think about it. 

Speaking of, their Indian restaurant was closed. Rats, according to the notice glued to the roll-down shutters. So, wouldn't you believe it? They fell back on the good, old, reliable fish and chips instead and they had eaten a good portion of the chips by the tune they made it to Sally's place. 

As planned, they crashed next to one another on the couch and kicked their shoes off with heartfelt groans of those who stood around all day, "pounding the pavement" as the grey ones used to say. Sally got to the remote first, the cheat, and she flipped through the channels at random until that famous actor with the weird name appeared on the screen. He had a weird face too, in his opinion, but good hair. 

"Seriously?" Greg asked because she wasn't switching channels anymore and this looked to be a romantic film. 

"Shut up," she said, keeping the remote tucked safely away from him. "He's dreamy." 

Greg looked at the bloke again, but his first impression held strong, and he was hard pressed not to laugh. 

"You do realize he looks a bit like Sherlock, right?" 

The resemblance was uncanny, and by "a bit", Greg meant "a hell of a lot", but he was trying not to rain on her parade. Too late, Sally froze, a piece of fried fish halfway to her mouth while she stared at the screen. 

"Oh my God! I can't believe you just ruined that for me!" 

Greg couldn't hold in the laughter anymore. Her face. It was priceless. 

"So? Sherlock's your type, eh? Never would have guessed all that tension between you two was of a sexual nature. It suddenly makes a lot more sense." 

"Fuck off, Greg. You know it isn't like that." 

"Okay, okay. But just out of curiosity, what is your type? I can't figure it out." 

Because between Anderson, a couple of her exes he had met, and the actor with the silly name, Greg couldn't figure out a common ground. And then there was himself as well that he couldn't fit in. Maybe she just had very eclectic tastes. 

"Don't have a type, really. It's more a question of personality." 

"I can see how that would rule out Sherlock, but still… Anderson?" 

"He's nice," she said defensively, then admitted: "Well, with me anyway. He's always ready to lend an ear when I need to vent. Gives good advice too."

"Yeah…" Greg muttered, unconvinced. 

It sounded more like Anderson was conveniently around to take advantage of Sally when she was feeling down just when his own wife was out of town. But Sally was a grown woman, she had to know what she was getting herself into. 

"I'm not seeing him anymore. Haven't in a while," she added. 

"Good," he said because she really did deserve better that the crumbs he was willing to toss her way. 

Her eyes met his after that and she blushed prettily when he held her gaze. He could almost read her thoughts this way, and she could probably do the same to him, because there was no use for words when they both leaned sideways, meeting halfway, their lips softly brushing, but causing something akin to electricity to shoot all through him. Greg moaned and pressed his lips more firmly, deepening the kiss, wanting to taste her, enjoying the salt from their shared dinner and the way she tried to wiggle closer, pulling him closer at the same time. It was good, soft, nothing like… 

Greg froze as an unbidden image of Haynes whispering in his ear: _ "I would have kissed those lips" _ flashed before his minds eyes. 

"Greg?" 

He shook himself out of the past memory. One which had never happened. He would push through this… this fear of a shadow. 

"Sorry," he said, plastering on a smile. "Thought I forgot something." 

She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. 

"Carry on," he said haughtily, earning himself an indignant slap on the arm, as he knew he would. 

But they did carry on, right there on the sofa, clothes flying until Greg could not think of much else other than Sally's beautiful naked body, so soft and hot to the touch. He was so hard… and  _ so ashamed, rutting against the mattress as Haynes pounded into him…  _

Greg flinched, recoiled from Sally's touch. 

"Oh God…" he whispered. 

He was never going to get rid of that worm in his mind, was he? Even with someone as sweet as Sally? She couldn't be any more the opposite of Haynes, and yet… 

"Greg? Something's wrong. I'm not an idiot."

He looked at her to find she had covered herself with one of the throw blankets, offering him the other. Oh God, he did not want to have this conversation again.

"I'm fine," he said, covering himself up. 

"Pull the other one, it's got bells on" she scoffed and Greg winced at the memory of the bell that announced Haynes return to his torture room. "Greg, you know you can talk to me, right? You can trust me." 

"I know, I  _ know _ ," he replied, a bit too harshly, but he was so goddamn angry at himself for letting Haynes get to him, for letting himself be such a victim of something that had not even happened… "I can't deal with this. I'm sorry Sals. I'll just go."

"No." Sally took a firm hold of his hand. "You can't just leave and let me wonder all night if you're dead in a ditch."

Greg frowned but she did have a point. If their roles were reversed, he wouldn't let her leave either. 

"Stay. We don't have to… You know," she said with an awkward wave between them. "But stay. Sleep over, okay?" 

Greg nodded and they settled back in the cushions to watch the stupid rom-com. The silence between them was a bit heavy at first, then awkward because they were both still naked under the blanket, and Greg could feel Sally near vibrating from not giving in to her curiosity to ask about what was bothering him, but soon they relaxed and became comfortable with one another again. Greg reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. 

"Thanks," he said. 

And that is all that was needed. Sally squeezed his hand back and he knew they would be good, or would have been if there was a tomorrow, if any of this was real… However, when Greg felt the warmth radiating from her skin and her pulse running beneath his fingers, he had to wonder how she could  _ not  _ be real. He combed through every detail in his mind, trying to make sense of his situation, even the bad parts he had been so intent to put aside and forget, still searching for a way out, still hopeful despite everything. Suddenly he felt a weight settle against him and found Sally had fallen asleep. Not that he blamed her. The last couple of weeks had been hell for his team and she deserved a rest. Tucking her under his arm, he pulled her blanket more snuggly around her and kissed the top of her head. 

She was a good friend, and he should know better than to think he had nothing when he had someone like her by his side. 


	9. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all staying safe as the virus burns through the world. Take care!

Friday count: 10

The phone rang. It always did. It was his wake-up call informing him he was in hell. Again. Greg groaned, but didn't move because he knew if he did, he would shoot the damned thing. Then Sally barged in, except this time, he couldn't quite look her in the eye after last night, not only because he could easily picture her naked body after the night they spent together, which was quite distracting, but also because he didn't want to see the complete lack of that same memory in her eyes. So he kept his head lying on his desk, wishing it was literally any other day. 

"Greg? Did you sleep at your desk again? You know it makes you grumpy." 

Greg snorted at the thought of telling her that no, until a moment ago, he had been cuddling naked with her in his arms, but it sounded like another groan as he still had his face all mushed up against his desk.

"Are you not feeling well? Do you want me to call a doctor?"

Greg shook his head from side to side, papers and pens toppling off his messy desk. Besides, with his luck, Dr Watson might suddenly appear out of the blue at the mere mention of him needing a doctor.

"Well, you better get a grip on yourself then. There's been another and we really need to go before-"

"What is the meaning of this?" a voice bellowed from outside his office.

"Too late," Sally muttered as she scuttled behind his wheely chair for cover.

Curious at this new development, Greg finally raised his head, just in time to see his door open and the superintendent stride in. His superior gave his office a disdainful glance before looking in turn between him and Sally.

"Lestrade!" he barked unnecessarily since he was literally sitting a foot away.

"Sir?" Greg replied flatly, unimpressed by his puffer fish impersonation.

"Why the blazes are you still sitting on your fat arse? Haven't you heard your freak killer has been at it again?Are you trying to make us looks like idiots again? Hop to it, Lestrade! And I want results this time."

Greg's eyebrows rose steadily higher as the superintendent sputtered in his general direction. The bastard must have been on the lookout for any slight to get on his case again. Apparently, not moving fast enough was a good enough excuse. Sure, he had all but ran out those other Fridays, for one reason or another, but this was plain ridiculous.

An idea struck him as he tried to control the anger building in the pit of his stomach, and Greg smirked. To think he hadn't known what to do with this particular Friday yet. So he embraced his temper, stood and gave his ass a perfunctory glance, then walked around his desk to stand in front of his boss."

"I think it's quite obvious the only one with a fat arse around here is you,  _ sir _ . Maybe you should "hop" to the gym to resolve the matter and let us do our jobs, yeah?"

In the deafening silence that followed, Greg basked in Sally's open mouthed shock and the rather violent shade of puce the superintendent was sporting. He was in the eye of the storm and enjoying himself for once. He had always fantasized of putting his chief in his place and it felt as good as he had imagined. On the plus side, when time looped around, he would not have to suffer the consequences, which were many now that his superior had found enough wits about him to threaten him with all sorts of disciplinary actions amongst which he promised demotion and immediate suspension without pay. Greg half expected him to add a good public spanking while he was at it.

"Abuse of power much?" he snarked when the spittle had stopped flying.

"I will have your badge for this, Lestrade. You mark my words. You have been nothing but trouble, you and that freak. Bad enough we're overrun with women," he sniffed as he gave Sally a contemptuous look. "Asking for more than they can handle. Useless if you ask me."

Sally stiffened. She was used to hear this kind of slander, but coming directly from a high ranking officer had to sting. She was good at hiding the hurt it caused her, but Greg knew her as well as she knew him, and like any good friend would do, he punched the moron insulting his friend right in his ugly face.

"She's got more balls than you'll ever have!" Greg spat as he looked down at his boss.

The twat had fallen on his ass, holding both hands against his bloodied nose and shouting at whoever would listen to have him arrested. The commotion had gathered a crowd, but none of the officers present looked to be in a hurry to comply with that order.

"Now!" the superintendent bellowed and the two closest to him hurried forward, but looked at a loss as to how to handle him.

"Handcuffs," Greg stage-whispered, causing a few onlookers to snicker and the superintendent to glower at him.

Finally, he was carted off to be processed and Sally caught up to him.

"What were you thinking? Have you completely lost your mind?" she hissed.

"Oh, come on now, Sals. That was fun."

"Fun? You've just been arrested!"

"Yeah… I do hope I don't make it to prison before tonight. All our legally challenged friends we threw in there might get a bit too handsy."

"Are you high? I don't get you. This isn't you, Greg."

"Donovan!" the superintendent shouted.

Sally gave him a long suffering look.

"It's your fault I have to put up with him more than necessary," she snapped before turning on her heels.

So much for defending her honour… but if he had to be honest, he had done that more for himself than her. He would regret being so rash if it wasn't for the day being reset. But no tomorrow, no consequences, as he well knew. For now, his colleagues were processing him extremely slowly whilst providing him with coffee, snacks and pats on the back. No one liked the superintendent.

Funnily enough, Greg wasn't sent to prison, but to the hospital, just like his first loop. Mental breakdown caused by leading the investigation to catch a gruesome serial killer for too long according to their psychiatrist. Not that he minded. He had a room to himself with a comfortable enough bed. He would just lie down and rest while replaying his memory of punching his superior officer. What a perfect way to spend this version of Friday.

However, he eventually got bored with it and reminisced on his night with Sally instead, which, if course, got him aroused. However, with the dilemma of not being able to be with someone, both because he was locked up and traumatized from his assault, well, that left little room to get some relief. His lips twitched upwards. Was he really going to wank off? Here? Now? That was so inappropriate, on so many levels. But the more Greg tried not to think about it, the more he did, and the worse an idea it seemed. It was a bit exciting too, if he had to be honest. 

On the other hand, if he freaked out like he had done with Sally, at least he wouldn't be embarrassing himself or anyone else with a simple wank. If it triggered any memories, he could just stop. No harm done. But if he did manage to go through with it, he might finally get over that damn hurdle, squash that insidious worm in his mind, and be… normal again. Or as normal as being stuck in a one day time loop could be. Then he could focus back on finding a way out so he could give himself and everyone else a tomorrow.

Yep. He was going to wank for the greater good.

Greg felt the tiniest bit self conscious as he let his hand wander down, but hey, technically, he  _ was _ in a bedroom, so in one swift motion, he pulled down the elastic of his hospital pants and pulled himself out. So far, so good. He laid back, relaxing a fraction, then gave himself a tug and closed his eyes. Okay. No flashes of terrible things. Maybe because it was his own hand and he knew what to expect, he could also avoid anything reminiscent of that day, avoid any triggers. At peace for once in his life, Greg let go of all the worries he had on his mind and leisurely stroked himself, getting harder with every back and forth in his fist. Very basic, but that's what he needed right now. 

Well, he did have a fleeting thought of Sally's naked body from yester-Friday that almost pushed him over the edge. A bit too soon, he wanted to enjoy the sensations for a little while longer, to feel safe even in this state of vulnerability. Somehow, that made him think of John who was so often there when he needed him, of that day when he had gazed into his blue eyes and he had looked away with a blush to his cheeks he had never seen before. Greg bit his lip and came with a grunt, then melted into his mattress in a boneless, satisfied heap. 

Well, fuck. He hadn't meant to come thinking of John Watson, but the guy did have a knack of popping in at the most inopportune time.

The sound of movement in his room, the shift of cloth, the scrape of a shoe on the floor had him sit up abruptly, eyes flying open as he scanned the doorway. Wouldn't you know it? John stood there, hand still in the door handle with only a foot in his room.

"I- Sorry. I-" the doctor babbled, cheeks aflame.

Greg wasn't much better, gaping at him with no idea how to break this awkward staring match. Eventually, John solved it by simply stepping back and closing the door, never to be seen again, for that day anyway.

Greg for his part, threw a pillow over his head and waited for the reset to put his shame to rest. No tomorrow, no consequences. He could pretend it had never happened, because it ethnically never had.


End file.
